


My Love is a Fever, Longing Still

by J_L_Hynde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alchemists & Pyromancers, Alchemists' Guild, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, B Plus C Equals R, Bashing on Lyanna Stark, Black Stone, Blood Magic, Blood is lives, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Children of the Forest, Citadel & Hightower conspiracies, Daenerys is a sweetbaby, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Secrets, Fire Magic, Fix-It of Sorts, Greyjoy Rebellion, House Baratheon/House Targaryen, House Targaryen, Jamie isn't in Kingsguard, King Aerys II is not winning father of the year, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Mad Danelle, Maegor the Cruel - Freeform, N plus A equals J, Oberyn Martell is a huge flirt, Old Valyria histories, Original Character(s), Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Polyamory Relationship(s), Pre-A Game of Thrones, Prophetic Dreams, Prophetic Visions, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Rhaegar Targaryen Bashing, Rhaella Targaryen is winning mother of the year, Robert is a major dick in the beginning, Robert's Rebellion, Shaena Targaryen Lives, Shaena Targaryen is winning Queen of the year, Shiera the seductress, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Story within a Story, Tags May Change, This story is a huge WHAT IF scenario, Tragedy at Summerhall, Undead & Resurrections, Valyrian mythology, Viserys is a bratty little brother, Westerosi Politics, Wood-witches, fire visions & prophetic dreams, follows events of Robert's Rebellion and after the war has ended, sorcerers & sorceresses, the Dance of the Dragons, the doom of valyria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_L_Hynde/pseuds/J_L_Hynde
Summary: Title inspired off of William Shakespeare's 147th Sonnet.She leaned forward and picked up the small goblet of wine in front of her, taking a sip from it. “I think about finding him a mistress, you know, but with his whores I think he has that covered. Perhaps if I planned a conquest of Esso maybe he’d find some purpose again. Maybe he needs another war to fight, another cause to champion.”“I think what he needs is someone to love and someone to love him,” he said.“Yes, probably," she agreed, "But we both know that person can’t be me. I’m a Targaryen, Lord Jon, and he hates Targaryens. Nothing I do will ever make up for the disaster and death that my father and brother caused the Seven Kingdoms.”“None of that was in your control,” he said.“No. I know that. But you see, it hardly matters to him. I’m guilty by association. I could try to fix it for the rest of my life and he’ll still look at me like I was the one to rape and murder his lady love.”
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Original Female Character(s), Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Arthur Dayne/Elia Martell, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Elia Martell & Shaena Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jaime Lannister/Leyla Hightower, Jaime Lannister/Shaena Targaryen (past), Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn/Lysa Tully Arryn, Kevan Lannister/Dorna Swyft, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Oberyn Martell & Shaena Targaryen, Renly Baratheon/Viserys Targaryen/Arianne Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen & Jon Connington, Rhaegar Targaryen & Original Female Character, Rhaegar Targaryen & Shaena Targaryen, Robb Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark, Robert Baratheon/Original Female Character, Robert Baratheon/Shaena Targaryen, Robert Baratheon/Shaena Targaryen/Stannis Baratheon, Shaena Targaryen & Arthur Dayne, Shaena Targaryen & Jaime Lannister, Shaena Targaryen & Oberyn Martell & Stannis Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Stannis Baratheon/Shaena Targaryen
Comments: 130
Kudos: 210





	1. Jon Arryn I.

**Author's Note:**

> An AU in which Queen Rhaella’s daughter Shaena lives and she decides to bring an end to The Mad King’s rule and a draft peaceful resolution to Robert’s Rebellion. A.K.A Robert marries a woman who has the best interest of him and 7 kingdoms in mind.

**JON I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

Her pretty pale face was drawn into perpetual a frown. She’s had that same frown since the day he became Hand of the King and only twice has he ever seen it slip, which he still wasn’t sure was not a trick of the light. If Prince Rhaegar had been known for his melancholy, his sister Shaena had become known for her austerity, and the distinct lack of smiles on her pale pink lips. But today was different. Today, she seemed lost, frustrated, and young. So, so young—she was young at six and ten years, he had to remind himself. 

“He’s getting worse, Lord Jon,” she told him plainly, “and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. It’s not the fighting or the whores that worries me if he needs to find solace in those things then by all means—but the wine… The wine is going to kill him.”

“Unfortunately, it would appear so, Your Grace.” Jon Arryn stared across the small council table to the defeated form of the Baratheon Queen. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. Some people said she was heartless, a scheming and cunning dragon that murdered her father in his sleep in order to take the throne. Others claim that she was just another victim of the Mad King’s abuse and that it was Ser Jamie Lannister that killed King Aerys II in his bed. And still, others say that she was the unlikely war hero for ending her father’s life before he could burn the entirety of King’s Landing with Wildfire. Jon supposed there was some grain of truth to all these stories, yet what he surmised was she was simply a girl who was put in an impossible situation and through some manner of cleverness and a whole lot of luck ended up Queen to the Seven Kingdoms and wife to King Robert Baratheon. 

She sighed resting her chin in her palm as she turned to him, her eyes pleading. “What am I supposed to do? When I proposed this marriage, this is not at all what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine?” He asked, curious. He thought he saw her lips twitch upwards for a moment, just shy of a smile before she answered. 

“I imagined that he’d tried to have me poisoned honestly,” she said.

“Not likely,” Jon scoffed. “Robert hates poison. If he planned to kill you, he’d toss you a sword to defend yourself.”

“Okay, maybe not poison,” she amended thoughtfully. “But I imagined he’d find a way to get rid of me as fast as possible. Maybe send me off to Dragonstone with Viserys and Daenerys…” She trailed off and rubbed at her temple, her expression pained. “But this is just tragic. How long can a man mourn the death of a maiden he barely knew?”

“How long have you mourned the death of your mother, your brother, and father, Your Grace?” He asked her.

“It’s not the same thing,” she argued. “I’ve grieved, I’ve moved past it. But he’s perpetually picking at scabbed over wounds, refusing to let go, to live. I don’t know how to pull him out of this grave he’s flung himself into…” She leaned forward and picked up the small goblet of wine in front of her, taking a sip from it. “I think about finding him a mistress, you know, but with his whores, I think he has that covered. Perhaps if I planned a conquest of Essos maybe he’d find some purpose again. Maybe he needs another war to fight, another cause to champion.”

It was a reasonable suggestion. The gods know, Robert could stand to find something to keep him going, however to Jon it sounded like more of a treatment than a cure for his grief. “I think what he needs is someone to love and someone to love him,” he said.

“Yes, probably,” she shrugged. “But we both know that person can’t be me. I’m a Targaryen, Lord Jon, and he hates Targaryens. Nothing I do will ever make up for the disaster and death that my father and brother caused the Seven Kingdoms.”

“None of that was in your control,” he said. 

“No. I know that. But you see, it hardly matters to him. I’m guilty by association. I could try to fix it for the rest of my life and he’ll still look at me like I was the one to rape and murder his lady love.” 

She took another sip, her nose curling up in distaste at the mere mention of Lyanna Stark. For as much a Robert might’ve loved her memory, Shaena hated her just as much if not more. Jon didn’t blame her for it. If there was a girl that seduced his brother and got him killed, causing his father to go on a murderous rampage and threaten to burn the entirety of King’s Landing to the ground with he and his family inside the Red Keep, and then his mother went into early labor from the stress of it all and died; then he’d likely hate the person responsible for all that tragedy just as Shaena did. 

“She wasn’t even murdered, she died in childbirth with the babe of the man she married,” she said. “Rhaegar was many things, but he was never a rapist and I doubt Lyanna would’ve married him if that was the case. Yet he mourns her like she was the love of his life when in reality she never loved him half as much as he loved her.” 

Again, another valid point. King Robert hadn’t taken well to the news of Lyanna’s death, but when it was found out that Rhaegar had set aside his wife Elia Martell, bastardizing his own children, in order to marry Lyanna he outright refused to acknowledge it, shutting himself in his royal chambers in Meagor’s Holdfast and drinking the day away. The only people allowed inside was his King’s guard and the whores they escorted in an out. “The truth is a bitter draught to swallow, Your Grace.”

“There’s no denying that. I just… I’m at a loss,” she admitted. “You’re the closest thing he has to a father and I thought, perchance, you might be able to reach him. If I thought it’d help, I’d summon Lord Eddard from Winterfell to knock some sense into him, but I think that’ll cause more harm than good at the moment.”

“I’ll speak to him,” he promised her. “Although, I cannot promise he’ll listen.”

“Thank you,” her purple gaze was intent, sincere. “I don’t know if this transition of power would’ve been as seamless without your assistance Lord Jon. Your council over the past year has been invaluable.” 

When she said things like that, when she took the time to acknowledge the effort of others, Jon found that he could not dislike Shaena. She was so much like the deceased Prince Rhaegar in that regard. Humble, in spite of everything in her life telling her she shouldn’t be. But unlike her brother, Shaena was more so, selfless, almost godly in her handling of the Seven Kingdoms after the war and her handling of her husband, who would want nothing more than to see every Targaryen die, who went out of his way to shame her with the countless whores visiting his bed chambers, who flung insults and cruel japes at her whenever she was near, who never called her by her name or title and referred to her as dragonwaif. She bore all of this in silence, not a cruel word uttered in response, nor a tearful outburst exhibited. She accepted it, all the while attending to her duties as Queen, assisting the Small Council in matters of state that Robert showed little interest in, and raising her remaining siblings as Queen Rhaella would’ve done had she lived. She had the Mother’s mercy and love for her nation, but the Crone’s wisdom and the Warrior’s strength to keep holding everything together. Jon admired her for it, respected her because of it, for he knew a lesser woman would have crumbled under the strain. 

“Your thanks are not needed, Your Grace. It’s my duty and my pleasure to serve in this position,” he told her. 

“Not many would serve as selflessly and honorably as yourself, my lord. Many would see the position as a way to take control of an unstable government in order to increase their own power and not the realms,” she said. “It’s a relief that Robert picked you and not Tywin Lannister, as capable as he is, he’s only ever been interested in his own ambitions.”

“Yes, it’s fortunate,” he agreed. Though it was more fortunate that Lord Tywin didn’t manage to marry Cersei Lannister to Robert. Her father’s daughter through and through. She would’ve taken advantage of the situation to benefit only herself, even to the detriment of the crown and the realm. Lord Stannis was already having a hell of a time to curb her exuberant spending that a lifetime of luxury in the halls of Casterly Rock encouraged. And he had little doubt, she would’ve more likely bankrupted the realm than repaired the tenuous alliances of the noble families. As grateful as Shaena was that he was Lord Hand, Jon was grateful that she was Queen even if she was a Targaryen and the daughter of a madman. 

Shaena brought the goblet to her lips and finished off the rest of her wine. “Well, I best be off then. I have tea to attend with my lady sister and the children,” she stood from the table gathering her loose papers under her arm. “If you can, try to get Robert to eat something besides Dornish girls.” 

Jon chuckled at her dry wit. “I’ll try, Your Grace.” 

As soon as she left him, the humor fell from his face as his thoughts returned back to the young king. Just what was he supposed to do? How do you help someone who has given up so entirely? The more he thought about it, the more Jon unironically considered Shaena’s suggestion of conquering Essos. As long as Robert was fighting the war, he was able to push all his pain and his heartbreak to the side. But now that it's over, now there’s no more battles to fight, no more Targaryen princes to slaughter, no more mad kings to slay, Robert has lost his purpose. 

But how was he supposed to get that purpose back? How was anyone, if Robert himself couldn’t find it? It worried him not as Hand of the King, but as a father. He was at a loss of how to handle this. Of his two wards, Eddard and Robert, Robert had always been the hardest to handle. Stubborn to a fault. How was he to get him to see reason? To see that they were still people supporting him, were still people who cared, and that chiefly among them was his wife? How was he to convince him to stop shoving people away to wallow in his own self-pity? 

The task seemed insurmountable. And Jon didn’t know where to begin. But he had to try, for the realm, for the crown, for Queen Shaena, and most importantly for Robert himself. He couldn’t stand aside and watch as a man he thought of as his son drank himself into an early grave before he even had the chance to truly live. Such a thing would be a tragedy for the man and a loss for a nation. 


	2. Shaena Targaryen I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei dabbed at her lips with her handkerchief. “Perhaps by the time, my husband and I return to court, you and the king might be expecting a little prince or princess.” 
> 
> “Perhaps,” she swallowed a mouthful of tea, her stomach twisting. “Or perhaps when you return we will both be with child so they can be born around the same time. They would be cousins raised as siblings.” 
> 
> “A pretty picture,” her mouth stretched into a smile. “It’d be only fitting since you and I grew up together at court that our children would be the same.”
> 
> “Either way a child is always a blessing,” Shaena brushed her finger gently against her sister's cheek. The babe giggled and smiled at the caresses, her hand reaching out to wrap around her own and toy with the silver signet ring on her thumb.
> 
> “That they are,” Elia agreed, while Dorna rested her hand on her swelling belly and nodded. Shaena’s eyes lingered on her sister’s face, trying to picture what her own babe would look like. Dark hair like its father, blue or violet eyes, but the image was too undefined, too blurry.
> 
> She couldn’t picture it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this chapter after about a month or so. I've been trying to work on my outline for this story as well as a myriad of other things during this quarantine. I hope the rest of you are hanging in there and staying positive during this tumultuous time. Fair warning this fic is likely going to have very irregular updates so there will be long periods between chapters. Just know that I'm still working on it, even if I haven't updated in a while. There's a lot of behind-the-scenes plotting, outlining, and research I do before drafting.

**SHAENA I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

_That goblet of wine in the small council chambers was a mistake._ Shaena silently admonished as a wave of dizziness overtook her causing her to squeeze Ser Arthur’s arm. The knight paused and raised a questioning brow at the young queen. 

“Are you alright, your grace?” He asked. 

Shaena loosened her grip, looking up at the tall Ser Arthur Dayne, a member of her kingsguard and her personal guard, squinting her eyes against the harsh rays of sunlight reflecting off his armor. “I’m fine, Ser,” she lied. “I think I might be a little tipsy, is all.”

“Oh…” Ser Arthur smiled, amused. “I thought you only had one cup.”

“I did,” she said. “But it was one cup more than I’m used to I’m afraid.” She smiled shyly; sweeping a tendril of her long platinum blonde over her shoulder and without a doubt there was a flush to her cheeks that had very little to do with the heat of the sun beating down on their heads. 

He laughed then, a low rumble in his chest. “You’re such a lightweight, just like Rhaegar.” 

_Just like Rhaegar was,_ she corrected silently to herself. The mention of Rhaegar brought a bitter twist to her mouth. A twist that was mirrored on Ser Arthur’s own thin lips. She glanced around her to see if anyone was paying attention to her as she and Ser Arthur climbed the Serpentine Steps—There wasn’t. It felt strange talking about him ever since her wedding. As if the very mention of the name was forbidden to be spoken at court, especially in the presence of the King, but with Ser Arthur it was different. The knight had been her older brother’s best friend. He had been with Rhaegar when he disappeared with Lyanna Stark, him and Ser Oswell Whent, and it was them who Rhaegar had left to guard the pregnant she-wolf when he returned to King's Landing to lead the Targaryen forces to the Trident. He understood, better than anyone, the loss of the Dragon Prince, his best friend, and Shaena liked that she didn’t have to pretend that that loss wasn’t there. Not with him. Not with Elia and the children. Not with her siblings. 

They were the only people she didn’t have to pretend around. 

“Don’t let Princess Elia know, Ser Arthur. She’ll lecture me,” the queen pleaded with a look not so dissimilar to when she was a girl and was caught climbing out of the secret tunnels of the Red Keep. It was a look that was half pouting, half sheepish, and wholly endearing. The knight caved instantly with a bemused sigh. Ser Arthur had always had trouble denying her anything which Shaena often considered had much more to do with his propensity for brotherly indulgence to his younger sisters, Ashara and Allyria, than his position on the kingsguard. The elder of which he had lost to this bloody war just as she had lost Rhaegar. 

Everyone had lost someone during the war. Not just her and Ser Arthur. Not just her husband Robert. Everyone. Some had lost more than others. Some had lost everything. Only the very fortunate, the supremely blessed, came out the other side without some death in the family; whether that was on the battlefield, in the birthing bed, or otherwise. Ashara Dayne’s loss however, was especially tragic. Ser Arthur doesn’t talk about it just as she didn’t talk about Robert smashing in Rhaegar’s breastplate with his iron Warhammer. Some things were simply too painful, too fresh a wound to be discussed. 

“Rest assured, your Grace. I’ll speak no word of it,” he said. 

“Thank you.” She patted his arm with her small pale hand. “Although fair warning I may need to use the secret word if Princess Elia begins to catch on to my condition. You remember what it is, Ser?”

Ser Arthur nodded. “Yes, your grace.”

“Good. I’ll use the word and you’ll make up a prior engagement or something to get me out of there,” she told him. “It’ll be just like when we used to sneak out of the keep to visit Jaehaerys Square.” Her words brought to mind the days she, Rheagar, and Ser Arthur would sneak out the keep in disguises to walk amongst the smallfolk in King's Landing. When they used to visit the orphanages in Flea Bottom and bring them fabric, toys, sugared plums, and sweet pastries from the markets. Shaena would sit amongst the little girls and help the septas mend the hems of their dresses while her brother sang and played his high harp. Then they’d dash through the maze of alleyways and cross-streets below the Street of Flour playing monsters-and-maidens and rats-and-cats until the sun set over the bay.

The memory seemed like a lifetime ago to her, when in reality it was only a few short years before. She both longed for those days and rejoiced that they were through. Despite the losses they had all suffered, it was worth it for her father’s long, chilling shadow to not be hanging over the Red Keep and the rest of the realm. She told herself that the War of the Usurper was for the best if it meant that a tyrant was no longer on the throne. She told herself it was worth it that Viserys and Danaerys were free from that horrible man’s influence. That they wouldn’t have a childhood filled with fear and pain and death. That they wouldn’t remember the smell of burning corpses nor the screams of dying men. That they wouldn’t have to watch their mother be brutalized by that beast, that inhuman monster, nor hear her cries through the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast while they laid in their beds at night. It was worth it since Rhaenys and Aegon were free to live their lives, free to choose their futures, free of that ugly iron throne and all the destruction that came with it. That none of them would ever be expected to rule, nor have that responsibility thrust upon them, nor have to adhere to the tradition of the incestuous marriages of their Targaryen ancestors. 

They were the supremely lucky ones. They were the ones that would have bright futures. She wouldn’t have changed a damn thing if it meant that they wouldn’t have the opportunities that they now had presented to them. Because the alternative would have been death—should have been death. They were all lucky to be alive. Her, her siblings, Elia and her children, Ser Arthur—everyone that was forced to align themselves on the wrong side of the war— because they should’ve all been dead. 

But the new king wasn’t her father. He hadn’t decided to execute them like her father would’ve done. Shaena wasn’t sure if he was a good man—He certainly wasn’t the best husband. (Although he was leagues ahead of her father when it came to marriage.) Then again, she knew she was no real prize either. Too much damage, too many open wounds and scarred over flesh, and a royal wheelhouse to carry the trunk upon trunk full of emotional baggage and trauma from her childhood. Nonetheless, she saw the potential he had to become a good king. A great king. One that could be respected and admired. And the realm hadn’t had one of those since her great-grandfather, Aegon V, had perished in the fires of Summerhall. 

That is why Shaena didn’t much care about her husband’s slights against her. That is why she tolerated his whoring, his embittered japes, his cruel insults about her family and their dragon blood. That is why she let him into her bed and fuck her like one of his whores without screaming or fighting him off. That is why she would let his seed quicken in her womb, why she would give birth to their children, and love and care for them even though they would be a product of a loveless union. It was why she would take the title of queen, attend small council meetings, repair the damage the war had wrought to the seven kingdoms, and help run the kingdoms as best as she could. Because it was the only thing keeping her family alive. It was the only thing keeping them safe. It was the price of their freedom, their futures, their lives. And she would gladly pay that price as long as it ensured all that. 

They traveled to their destination at a leisurely pace, climbing to the top of the steps and following the cobblestone pathway to the godswood. The Targaryens didn’t call it that, but everyone else referred to the acre of elms, alders, black cottonwood trees, and lush flower gardens as such. It even had its own heart tree, a large old oak covered with smokeberry vines and dragon’s breath, but it was never meant as a place of prayer or worship. The Targaryens didn’t keep the Old Gods, they barely kept the New Ones most of the time, and the “Valyrian Fire Gods have no need for septs and heart trees,” is what her father had said. They only needed fire and blood. 

_Fire and Blood._ The Targaryen words came back to her in an instant, echoing in her father’s rolling rasp. Shaena rubbed at her nose, all of the sudden catching a whiff of smoke. She decided to think about something else that wouldn’t make her stomach churn. “Ser Arthur,” She came to a standstill and the knight looked down at her again in concern.

“Is everything alright, your grace?” He asked. 

“Yes,” she assured him quickly. “I just need to take a breath. Those damn steps—” She let out a shaky breath and coughed into her arm. “I swear they’ve killed half the people who’ve walked on them.” 

“Do you need to sit down?” His brows drew together in concern as Shaena coughed again. Her breath wheezing slightly as she inhaled. 

Shaena waved off the suggestion. “No. I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? You’re wheezing,” he observed worriedly. “Do I need to fetch a maester?”

“No. I’m alright, honest.” She released a deep slow breath and composed herself as best as she could. “Don’t look so worried, Ser. I’m not about to die on you. It’s just the pollen in the air. You know how springtime affects my lungs.” It was a well-known fact that the queen suffered from what the maesters’ called weak lungs; an unfortunate result of her early birth that resulted in shortness of breath and coughing attacks. She had lived with it her entire life, even when Grand Maester Pycelle foretold that she wouldn’t survive past the first six months of infancy, but survive she did and over time her symptoms lessened although never truly disappeared. 

“Please don’t push yourself, Your Grace,” he warned. 

“I know my limits, Ser Arthur.” She gave the knight one of her rare half-hearted smiles, hoping to ease the worried wrinkle on his forehead. “I’ll let you know if I need a maester.”

The knight still looked rather unconvinced, but he reluctantly agreed to escort her the rest of the way and not carry her there. That would’ve been quite the spectacle for the other ladies and possibly a bit of envy for Ser Arthur was no grotesque by any standard. With his dark hair, fair skin, and plum-colored eyes, he could’ve had his pick of the young ladies of the court. If only he had desired such instead of joining the Kingsguard and even now some of them were still undeterred by the white cloak on his shoulders; the garment making him more attractive in their eyes. Yet, Shaena thought that the knight’s best quality had little to do with his looks and more to do with his unshakeable loyalty to the oaths of which he swore himself. He was a true knight; a man of honor and integrity. Such a thing was extraordinarily rare.

The pavilion was set up on the east end of the Godswood, near the bushes of roses, hydrangeas, and meadowsweets. The scent of flowers perfumed the air masking the stench of dung and decay that sometimes wafted in from Flea Bottom. It was said that a person could smell the shit from King’s Landing five miles in any direction, however, Shaena had lived in the Red Keep long enough that she instinctively ignored the unpleasant aromas that so often accompanied any sort of breeze. It had taken her goodsister, Elia, a full year and a half before she became accustomed to the smells of the city, and even now she carried around a perfumed handkerchief in her skirts just in case. Elia preferred the salty brine air and sunshine that surrounded Dragonstone—Shaena did too— which is why she had spent both of her pregnancies there and it was an excuse to get away from the adders at court. 

_Speaking of adders…_ The queen slowed her steps as she spotted the other ladies having tea with her good sister. It appeared as if it was a full company. She recognized the faces of noble ladies in attendance as some of them were the wives of the other Small Council members along with a few whose husbands served directly under House Targaryen. Normally she wouldn’t mind the extra company, however, in her current state the sight of them brought her up short and made her reconsider whether or not to join them. She was in no mood to simper and converse pleasantries. 

_“Ñāma Shæna!_ ”

As she debated her next move, she was noticed; or more ambushed by two small children sprinting toward her. Their little bodies collided with her knees, almost knocking her feet out from under her if not for the hold she had on Ser Arthur’s arm. Their tiny hands grabbed at her skirts as they hugged her, their little faces shining with joy. 

Shaena’s face broke out into a beaming smile as she laughed and swept down to embrace her niece and nephew. “There they are, my little _Rhæ and Æggsy!”_ She squeezed them tight and peppered kisses over their faces until they were all laughing and breathless.

_“Iksā pæz!”_ The little girl, Rhaenys, exclaimed with a humph and a hand on her hips. “You promised you were going to be here half an hour ago. _Muña_ though you weren’t coming.”

“Apologies, sunshine. My meetings ran longer than I expected. But I’m here now,” Shaena stood to her full height and the siblings slipped their little hands into hers as they walked down the cobblestone to the pavilion. “Have both of you been good for your mother while I was gone?”

“Yes, _Ñāma,_ ” they chirped. 

She nodded satisfied by the answer. “Good, very good.”

Whilst Shaena was known by the majority of the court to be dour and solemn for her little niece and nephew she was all smiles, hugs, and kisses. Ever since the day the little princess Rhaenys was born on Dragonstone and was placed into her arms swaddled in that knitted pink blanket, Shaena became a devoted aunt to the small babes loving and spoiling them as only an aunt could. She adored them and they adored her. Their smiling faces always managed to lift her spirits no matter the mood she was in. A rare ray of sun and warmth in all the darkness and chilling uncertainty that surrounded the royal court. 

Although they were siblings, Rhaenys and Aegon looked hardly anything alike. Rhaenys was her mother’s daughter olive-skinned, amber-eyed, and long dark hair braided and pinned into two pigtails at the nape of her neck. Except for the single strand of golden blonde hair that was interwoven with her left braid, the golden dragon was all Dornish beauty inheriting little from her silver-haired father. She wore a dress of burnt orange silk with white and golden flowers embroidered on the bodice and skirt that billowed in the breeze. And around her slim neck was a string of black pearls that had been a gift from Rhaegar on her first nameday. Aegon, on the other hand, was almost the spitting image of his late father; silver-blond-hair, full pink lips, and the beginnings of those infamous cheekbones hidden under a layer of baby fat. It was only the shape and color of his eyes that were different, the shape taken after his mother’s heavy-lidded eyes and the color of a soft, pale blue like a robin’s egg that was said to be similar to those of the Good Queen Alysanne. He was barely a year younger than his older sister, but he was already standing taller than her at three in his wine-colored silk tunic, black doublet, breeches, and stockings. The maesters speculated that he would grow to be just as tall as his father, if not taller, while Rhaenys would keep her mother's petite and sylphlike appearance.

_“Ñāma_ can you play with us?” Aegon tugged on the queen’s hand with excitement.

“For a little while,” She told them. “I have to go to more meetings later today.”

“But you’re always going to meetings!” Rhaenys pouted, “We don’t see you anymore.”

“You saw me just this morning, _Rhæ_. We had breakfast together,” she said. 

“Yeah, but you were busy with the baby and didn’t play with us,” the little girl replied. Even though she knew Rhaenys didn’t mean to, a wave of guilt coiled in her gut at the despondent look on the little princess’s face. She knew she hadn’t been spending as much time with them as she used to, not since she had donned on her crown of golden antlers and red rubies, and she felt guilty about it. Guilty because this was the time that she should’ve been spending with them after the death of their father, however, her loyalties were split, quartered, into her responsibilities to them as their aunt, to Viserys and Daenerys as their legal guardian and sister, to the realm as its queen, and to House Targaryen as its sole matriarch. The Seven Knows, she was only one person, and yet more and more she found herself juggling the lives of what felt like four different people (five, even, if one included the king and his duties). 

She was exhausted. She knew things couldn’t keep going the way they had been. It was unsustainable. Something had to give. She hoped that Jon Arryn would be able to get through to Robert, even if he only got him to start planning the tournament for the first anniversary of the Baratheon reign it would be a huge burden lifted. She knew Robert liked tourneys and she remembered the tourney he had planned at Storm’s End had gone over well so she was sure he could handle it if he decided to put the effort in. That’s the thing, though, was there was no guarantee Robert would put the effort in. A part of her thought he might even deliberately sabotage the tourney just to get back at her solely because it was her who was asking. And if that was the case, she might just be better off recruiting the help of her goodbrother, Stannis, than her husband. At least then, she knew, her cousin would keep the costs low for the royal coffers.

Instead of addressing the princess, Shaena turned her attention to the prince. “What do you want to play, _Æggsy_?” She asked him. 

“I want to play come-into-my-castle,” Rhaenys interjected before her brother could answer. 

“Wait, hold on, Sunshine. Let your brother answer first,” Shaena told her. “You got to pick last time, remember?”

“... _monstersandmaidens_ …” The prince’s soft voice chimed in shyly, almost mumbling.

“Speak up, Æggys. I can’t hear you from up here,” Shaena told him. 

“I want to play monsters-and-maidens,” he said louder, firmer. 

“Better.” A quick glance over her shoulder and the queen found Ser Arthur smiling at the display. Shaena laughed shortly, “And who do you want to be the monster?” 

“Tyene!” They chorused. 

“Tyene is here?” Shaena looked up again at the pavilion as they neared it, sweeping again over the women present. That’s when she spotted the young blonde girl and her little sister, Sarella, sitting with the Princess Daenerys on a quilted blanket in the shade of the pavilion. The queen’s little sister was sitting in the blonde’s lap wearing a long silk chemise of lavender and white, while the other little girl built up a tower of painted wooden blocks for the infant to knock down. Tyene and Sarella Sand were the two youngest daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell, the younger brother to Princess Elia, who served as the Master of Coin. They often spent time with their aunt and cousins during the afternoon, while their older sisters Obara and Nymeria attended their lessons. 

“Ah, I see she is. Well, you’ll have to ask her if she wants to play and if she says yes, then we can,” she told them. 

“But not before your aunt has had a chance to sit down,” Princess Elia stood up at their arrival along with the other ladies. “Your Grace,” she curtsied in greeting and then fixed her eyes on her children. “Give your aunt a break. Let her relax.” 

“ But _Muña—_ ”

“Go play with your cousins,” she told them. “Your beloved _Ñāma_ will be with you in a bit.” She shooed the children away toward their cousins and the two nursemaids, Salrah and Lyla, supervising them and gestured for the Queen to sit on one of the chaise lounges provided. Shaena did after greeting the other ladies cordially with an incline of her head. 

Of the guests in attendance, there was: Cersei Baratheon, formerly of House Lannister and wife to her goodbrother Stannis; her aunt, Dorna Lannister, formerly of House Swyft and wife to the Master of Ships; Lysa Arryn, formerly of House Tully and wife to the Hand; Elia’s lady attendant, Ellisha Brune, and her husband, Ser Darvin Brune, that served as princess’s sworn shield; Ser Richard Lonmouth, who served House Targaryen as Princess Daenerys’ sworn shield; and a lady champion of her own, Jillyan Cave. She thought it was a rather large gathering for a simple tea, although only the women were partaking of the refreshments while the two men stood aside as silent sentries. Ser Arthur moved to join them, blocking the sun out of Shaena’s eyes. Elia passed her a cup and saucer of rose petal tea with honey and Shaena took a sip. 

“Very good tea. From Highgarden, I assume,” she observed. 

“You assume correctly, Your Grace,” Ellisha confirmed placing her cup and saucer on the table before her. “It was a gift from my younger sister fostering there.” 

Shaena hummed. “And how is your sister Jeyne, Lady Brune? Is she settling well in the Reach?”

“She is. Too well perhaps for she writes that she never wants to leave,” she replied with a laugh. 

Shaena’s lips quirked upwards, amused. “Can’t say I blame her. The reach is beautiful this time of year.” 

“It’s not called a paradise for nothing,” Elia agreed and the other ladies nodded. 

Shaena took the time to assess her company as she reached for a lemon tart. Her eyes meeting the flashing green of her goodsister’s from across the table. Cersei was seated opposite to her, between her aunt on her left and Lysa on her right, in a Westerland style gown of red silk and golden lions. _Lannister colors_ , she mused. Although the woman had been married two moons ago, she still refused to don the black garments and golden stags of House Baratheon. It could’ve had something to do with Stannis' rather utilitarian view of fashion and iron grip he kept on the purse strings. From what she heard their marriage was already off to a rocky start after her cousin had restrained his wife’s spending to a meager allowance when she had frivolously spent a large sum on silk slippers. Perhaps she considered her new dresses too drab to be worn around the court. Or perhaps, as she suspected, it mattered not whether her new dresses were less extravagant than her former for she would keep the lions all the same. 

_You can change the clothes, but you cannot change the man_ , she chewed on the tart, fingering her own skirt of black and red. Just like Cersei she was also dressed in the colors of her father’s house, although there was not a dragon in sight. Not anymore. Not after she took her husband's name. 

“Perhaps you can visit your sister there one day,” Shaena continued speaking with Ellisha. “Maybe when she gets married.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful,” she agreed, meeting the eyes of her husband and smiling. “What do you think, darling?” 

“Sounds nice,” was Ser Darvin’s gruff response. The man wasn’t known for being forthcoming when it came to conversation, however, his wife never seemed to mind as she did most of the talking anyway. Ellisha was tall and curvy with brown hair the color of roasted chestnuts and green hazel eyes. She was pretty, in a common sort of way, while her husband was tall, brooding, and silent. 

“Speaking of weddings—” Jillyan cut in, turning to Cersei, “I heard your brother is to be married soon.”

Cersei visibly tensed at the mention of her brother. Her jaw clenched as she nodded. “He is,” she said. “He’s betrothed to one of Lord Hightower’s daughters.” 

“Sounds like a good match. Hightower’s are a very respected family,” Elia remarked. 

Cersei didn’t do much more than a smile in response. But there was something strained about it as her eyes narrowed sharply. The woman was strikingly beautiful with sharp angular features, natural golden curls, and stunning green eyes. She was tall, slender, and fair with a graceful figure that turned more than a few heads as she walked down the corridors of the Red Keep. Shaena considered that she was far more attractive than she—she was likely the most beautiful lady in the Seven Kingdoms— and had been since they were both young girls at court. 

Both of her goodsisters were like the sun; warm, brilliant, and eye-catching, and people gravitated to them like planets in an ellipse. Shaena had always been more distant, colder, quieter, as the moon never drawing people to her but existing just out of reach. There was a time that both of them could’ve been queen. She even thought that either of them would’ve been better suited to the position than her. Robert had almost married Cersei, and before that Cersei had almost been married to Rhaegar. Neither of her father’s sought out betrothals worked out, however, and she found herself unwillingly tethered to Stannis Baratheon through some queer turn of fate. And Elia—Well, Elia was supposed to be queen had her brother lived. Her son was supposed to be king longer than a day after his death. Yet in the end, she was the one to wear the crown on her head. It was her they called Queen, even though she had never wanted it. She had never lusted after power, had never lusted after the crown prince like so many other young maidens, nor sought the titles and the prestige that came with them. The only thing she had ever wanted was to be free of this cursed keep, free of court, free of her royal status—How ironic that now that was the one thing she would never have? 

_At least Ser Jaime got out,_ she told herself. At least she was able to set the young knight free from this hellish city. If she did one thing right in all this, it was releasing Ser Jaime from the kingsguard. It sounded as if things are going rather well for the knight since he left, heir to Casterly Rock, a pretty Hightower bride-to-be, and a generous dowlery to go with her. Yet Cersei was far from happy about it. The more the other ladies talked about the upcoming nuptials, the more her jaw clenched and her smile strained. Shaena silently took note over the rim of her teacup, hiding her frown. 

_She should be happy for her brother,_ she thought. _If she truly loved him in the way that Jaime claimed. She should’ve been happy his future looked so bright._ Nevertheless, the only thing she saw was anger and jealousy burning in her bright green eyes; burning like the wildfire her father had loved so dearly

Shaena set her teacup down, deciding to change the topic before that anger boiled over, turned to Lady Dorna, and asked if she had thought up any names for the twins she was carrying. The older woman stroked her rounded stomach gently as she smiled. “My husband was thinking of Martyn for a boy and Dyanna for a girl. I myself like the names Willem and Janei,” she said.

“Those are good names. Dyanna was the name of my great-great-grandmother. She was by all accounts a generous and kind woman from what I heard.” Shaena smiled, “New life is a blessing after such troubling times.”

“It is, your grace,” she agreed. “My husband and I are very happy.” 

Shaena looked to the side as one of the nursemaids, Lyla, carried her little sister around the chaise. The queen called out to her and asked for the babe to be brought to her when she noticed she was crying. “There, there…” She shushed, rocking the little princess in her lap. “What happened, Dany?” 

“She got scared, your grace? There was a beetle on the blanket,” Lyla told her.

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “A beetle?” She stroked her hand over the babes soft head of silver-blonde hair, her fingers soothing her cries to little whimpers. “Oh, _hāedar_ , don’t cry little one. The beetle is gone now, alright? Look here—” Shaena slipped off one of her golden bangles to distract the infant. 

Her sister took the bangle in her chubby little hand, her face alight with wonder before unceremoniously biting down on the jewelry. She was teething and the cold metal helped soothe her aching gums. Shaena smiled and adjusted the babe she could sit up against her stomach. 

“Your Grace’s sister has gotten big,” Dorna remarked, smiling at the little princess. “She looks so much like you that one could mistake her as your own.”

“You think so?” Shaena looked down at the chubby-cheeked girl and shook her head. She didn’t see it. Daenerys took more after their mother than she did her. She had the same wavy wisps of shivery blonde hair, the same shape and color of dark violet eyes, the same pouting mouth… The only similarity that she could see was the small divot in her chin which had been a distinct trait of their father. “I think she takes more after my late mother than she does myself. She’ll likely be the spitting image of her when she becomes a woman. No doubt they’ll be no shortage of offers for her hand.”

“Yes, Queen Rhaella was a great beauty,” Dorna agreed. “However, I still see quite a bit of you in her as well.”

“Well, we are sisters. I suppose that’s natural,” she considered. Although she also considered that Daenerys would grow to become the more comely of the two just as Rhaegar did with Viserys. Viserys and she had too much of their father, she thought, to become any great beauties by any measure. 

“I’ll say when you and the king have your first child, you’ll be prepared,” Jillyan said. “You handle her so well, it’s already like you are her mother.”

_But I’m not,_ she thought. _And I won’t ever be. Nobody could replace mother, especially not me._ Her face felt strained and she caught Elia watching her closely. “Yes, well I had a lot of help. I don’t think I would’ve managed it half as well without Elia’s assistance. She’s been invaluable,” she said. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about mothering, if not for her.”

Elia laughed at the praise, setting her tea aside. “You’re selling yourself short, sweet sister. You would’ve done just fine without me for I recall you helped me with both Rhaenys and Aegon when I was confined to my bed.”

“Yes, well if you didn’t watch her during the day, she would be quite neglected,” Shaena replied. “I don’t spend nearly as much time with her as a mother should.”

“Although that is no fault of your own,” Ellisha said. “You are the Queen. That would take precedence, I think.” 

“Yes, you’re right. It does,” she agreed solemnly. “My time is rather limited as of late.”

“Perhaps you should go on a holiday to the Reach,” Ellisha suggested. “You were invited to Ser Jaime’s wedding after all.”

“That would be nice,” Shaena admitted, “but I’m afraid my attendance will be impossible. The King and I have too many responsibilities at the moment to travel so far for the wedding. Although it was kind of Ser Jaime to extend an invitation, the King and I will have to send our gifts with you and your husband, Lady Cersei.”

“Of course, Your Grace. My brother has expressed his understanding of the arrangement, although he wished you and the King could attend he understands why you cannot,” Cersei dabbed at her lips with her handkerchief. “Perhaps by the time, my husband and I return to court, you and the king might be expecting a little prince or princess.” 

“Perhaps,” she swallowed a mouthful of tea, her stomach twisting. “Or perhaps when you return we will both be with child so they can be born around the same time. They would be cousins raised as siblings.” 

“A pretty picture,” her mouth stretched into a smile. “It’d be only fitting since you and I grew up together at court that our children would be the same.”

“Either way a child is always a blessing,” Shaena brushed her finger gently against her sister's cheek. The babe giggled and smiled at the caresses, her hand reaching out to wrap around her own and toy with the silver signet ring on her thumb. 

“That they are,” Elia agreed, while Dorna rested her hand on her swelling belly and nodded. Shaena’s eyes lingered on her sister’s face, trying to picture what her own babe would look like. Dark hair like its father, blue or violet eyes, but the image was too undefined, too blurry.

She couldn’t picture it. 

_It likely won’t happen for a very long time,_ she thought. It had been almost a year since she was wed and still she has remained childless. She had heard Robert had managed to father a bastard on some tavern worker in the Vale after just one night. Yet she has coupled with him many nights since their first bedding and his seed has not quickened inside her. There was talk around the court, nasty rumors, that her body was too weak to produce an heir. Her advisors worried she was barren or like her mother was not fit to bear children. 

She knew none of that was true. She knew it was not her womb that prevented her from having a child, but the moontea she drank every evening that ensured that her womb stayed empty. She refused to be used as some broodmare by her husband and their advisors. She was their queen and if she was to have a child, she would decide when and how that happened. Now was not the right time to conceive a babe, although it would solidify her position at court she had no desire to bring a child into the chaos that was her life. The realm was still unstable, her husband was still grieving and absent, Daenerys has yet to be weaned, and she just has too much on her plate to become a mother. Now was not the time. 

There was a myriad of reasons she wasn’t ready to be a mother. She didn’t want to resent her child if it was born too soon. She feared that her future pregnancy would allow her advisors the opportunity to push her out of the Small Council meetings, to regulate her to planning feasts, luncheons, and teas with the courtiers. (Not that there was anything wrong with that. For that is what her mother had done and what Elia currently does.) She was a Targaryen, even if she no longer had the name, she was still a dragon queen and she knew that there were still those who sought to overthrow her. There were still those enemies that sought to destroy House Targaryen, to burn it to the ground, until it was nothing but ashes and that they existed even here at court—especially at court. And if she lost just a smidge of her control, if her grip on the Southron politics slackened for only a moment, then that would be all the opportunity needed for them to come at her and her family. 

This was not the place for a child. Not yet. She wasn’t safe yet. Her family wasn’t safe yet. 

The war had ended, but she was still fighting to stay alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High Valyrian Words:  
> Ñāma- Informal word for aunt, like auntie (specifically the younger sister of my father/Aunt on my father's side.) The formal word is Ñāmar.  
> Iksā pæz- literal translation is "You are slow", but what she means is You're late.  
> Muña -Mother.  
> Hāedar- little sister.


	3. Robert Baratheon I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Mad King was overthrown by the members of his Small Council,” Jon reminded him, while Robert rolled his eyes.
> 
> “Horseshit!” Robert slammed his fist on the desk and shook his head, “You don’t honestly buy that half-arsed story about a coup? The three men that were hung were that bastards most vocal supporters. Why in the Seven would they turn against him? Nay, she killed him. You know it. I know it. The whole realm knows it. But do they call her kinslayer, kingslayer—no. They’re too craven to say it to her face. A bunch of arse-kissing lickspittles. Those Targaryens are a treacherous lot every last one of them. That whoreson, dragon-whelp she calls a brother looks at me as if he’s already plotting to slip poison into my wine and I wouldn’t be surprised if the little shit tries it. It is the kind of dishonorable, craven thing for a dragon to pull.”
> 
> Jon chuckled, a brief look of amusement passing over his face. “You know, her grace said almost the exact same thing about you,” he said.
> 
> “What did she say about me?”
> 
> “That you would poison her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time, I've written Jon Arryn. Hopefully, I've done the character justice. Reading into his background has been fairly interesting and I think this has been a very insightful chapter in regards to the father/son dynamic between King Robert and his Hand. This chapter is shorter than the last one, but it gets to the point rather quickly.

**Robert I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

Robert stretched out his limbs causing the silk bed linens to pool around his waist. He came to with a groan, throwing one arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight streaming into the room. There was an ache in his head, pulsating like a beating heart behind his eyes. His body felt heavy, numb, and it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone in his bed. Blinking dumbly at the slumbering golden-haired maid reclined beside him with her hands folded under her cheek while her breast spilled out onto the mattress. 

_A young, pretty thing,_ he thought as he tried to recall how she got there. She was a whore—No— kitchen wench or maybe a handmaiden? 

He couldn’t remember. 

All he could remember was the wine from the Arbor—Too much wine—and laughing, and that thing she did with her tongue when he had had his cock in her mouth. _Ah, yes, her mouth…_ He felt himself stirring at the memory. Her mouth had been the first of the Seven Heavens that much he knew. 

I took him a moment to realize what had awoken him from his deep drunken slumber, his eyes slowly focusing on the surroundings of his private chambers. He blinked. Then blinked again as the blurry form at the foot of his bed took shape, morphing into the white armored knight of one of his sworn kingsguard. It was Hightower, the young one, the great-nephew of the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold. Garlan...or Garret...or something. Although calling him young was a bit of hyperbole for the man couldn’t be much older than himself. 

“Your Grace, apologies to disturb your rest. But the Hand of the King is requesting an audience with you in your solar,” the man told him. “I can tell him you are indisposed, but he claims he needs to discuss a matter of some importance.”

“No—” He croaked, his voice heavy with sleep. “No. I’ll see him. Just tell him, I’ll need a moment to prepare myself.” 

“As you wish,” The knight nodded before his eyes flickered to the king’s bed companion. “And what about the woman?”

“Let her sleep for now,” Robert said. She had more than earned it after last night. “If she wakes up while I’m gone, make sure she’s paid before you send her on her way.” 

The knight nodded and departed from the room the same way whence he came, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. And the king propped himself up against the pillows rubbing his temples in hopes to relieve the pounding in his skull. _Gods...what a night,_ he groaned as he pushed himself up and off the feathered mattress on unstable legs. In a moment, vertigo overtook him as he stood and the room seemed to sway as if he were on a ship at sea tossed about by the waves. He clutched at the bedpost until the feeling passed, then lurched forward to the wooden armoire to retrieve a pair of trousers and a tunic. Clothing himself and splashing water on his face from the washbasin, he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and short beard of wiry black hair that had overtaken his features in a half-hearted attempt to make himself more presentable and not like he had been lying in bed until midday. 

Jon Arryn was waiting for him in his solar, his back to him as he entered. The man turned at the sound of the door, his blue gaze flickering over his bedraggled appearance and frowned. “Your Grace,” he greeted him with a slight incline of his head. 

“Jon,” he said as he took his seat behind the large ornately carved desk. “Please sit,” he urged with a wave of his hand toward one of the two chairs seated opposite to himself. “I was told you needed to speak with me.”

“Yes, I do.” The man sat down and placed his hands on his lap schooling his expression into a blank mask. 

“Is this Small Council business because you know that that woman can handle—”

“It’s not about the small council,” Jon was quick to correct him. “Or more, I’m not here today in any official capacity, Robert. This is a personal matter.”

“Oh?” Robert brow rose in interest at that. It was rare that Jon would seek him out for a personal matter. He was intrigued, if not a little wary. “And what personal matter is this?” He asked.

Jon’s forehead creased, his expression becoming drawn and pensive. He stared at Robert for a long moment, long enough for the younger man to shift uncomfortably in his seat recognizing that look as the one that had always predated serious conversations. It was a look that Robert was familiar with. It was the same look Jon had had when he read the letter from the Mad King demanding his and Ned’s heads, when he had called his banners, and learned of his nephew’s death. It was a foreboding look that Robert knew always preceded bad news. 

In an attempt to delay whatever the man was about to say, Robert reached for the decanter of wine on the desk, pouring himself a goblet. “I need some wine. Do you want some, Jon?” He offered the filled goblet to the man, but he only shook his head.

“No, thank you, Your Grace.” The man declined politely. “It’s too early in the day for me.”

Robert brought the goblet to his lips and drank. The bitter-sweet taste with hints of golden oak and honey helped wash the stale taste of sleep from his tongue. Jon watched him silently, his wrinkles creasing around the corners of his mouth. The man waited patiently, as Jon had always been unbearably patient, for Robert to bring the goblet away from his lips before he spoke. 

“I’m concerned for you,” he said. 

Robert didn’t know what to say to that. _Concerned for him? Concerned for what?_ A part of him didn’t want to ask; fearing the answer. 

Jon paid his silence no mind, continuing on with his current train of thought. “Is any of this helping you?” 

“This?” Robert repeated slowly, “What’s this?”

“The wine, the women,” Jon said.

Robert paused looking down at the red wine swirling at the bottom of his goblet. “It certainly doesn’t hurt. What problem cannot be fixed with a beautiful maid and a barrel of wine?” The young king snorted, his lips twitching up in good humor. An attempt to lighten the older man’s expression, but Jon was having none of it. 

“Robert, don’t pretend with me. You and I both know that doesn’t work—”

“What do you want me to say?” His expression darkened as he cut him off. “I don’t need any judgments from you, Jon.”

“I assure you, this isn’t a judgment.” He sighed then leaning back in his chair, his eyes traveling the length of the room. It didn’t seem as if he was looking for anything in particular. It was almost as if the man wasn’t looking at anything at all. “I understand how you feel,” he said. 

Robert scowled. “You understand? You understand what?” His voice filled with thinly veiled ire as he stared down the elder man across the desk. It was a warning. A warning that snapped Jon out of his silent contemplation. The man sat up, his blue gaze flashing back to the young king.

“Apologizes, Your Grace. I meant no offense,” he told him. It was an attempt to mollify him, that much Robert knew, however it lacked the necessary sincerity to have any sort of effectiveness. 

“Bugger that! If you have something to say, Jon, well you best come right out and bloody say it,” Robert told him. “Stop this dancing around the matter as if we're a couple of bumbling court fools.”

Jon pressed his lips together for a moment, looking neither taken aback nor alarmed at his outburst, then nodded. “If that’s what you prefer, I’ll speak plainly.”

“Good.”

“Her grace asked me to come here to beseech you to take better care of yourself,” he began. “She said many things that she was concerned about although it all boils down to you drinking less, eating well, and attending the Small Council meetings.” 

Robert scoffed and brought the wine back to his lips, almost in a silent act of rebellion. “That woman thinks she can order me about… Who does she think she is? My mother?” 

“She’s concerned about you,” Jon told him. “We both are.”

“Ha! Concerned? That woman hates my guts. The only thing she’s concerned about is that I don’t make a mess of things that she’ll have to clean up. She only needs me to keep my rebel supporters in line and secure an heir for the crown,” he said. “That’s all I’m good for. As soon as she’s done with me, she’ll do what she did to her monster of a father.”

“The Mad King was overthrown by the members of his Small Council,” Jon reminded him, while Robert rolled his eyes.

“Horseshit!” Robert slammed his fist on the desk and shook his head, “You don’t honestly buy that half-arsed story about a coup? The three men that were hung were that bastards most vocal supporters. Why in the Seven would they turn against him? Nay, she killed him. You know it. I know it. The whole realm knows it. But do they call her kinslayer, kingslayer—no. They’re too craven to say it to her face. A bunch of arse-kissing lickspittles. Those Targaryens are a treacherous lot every last one of them. That whoreson, dragon-whelp she calls a brother looks at me as if he’s already plotting to slip poison into my wine and I wouldn’t be surprised if the little shit tries it. It is the kind of dishonorable, craven thing for a dragon to pull.”

Jon chuckled, a brief look of amusement passing over his face. “You know, her grace said almost the exact same thing about you,” he said.

“What did she say about me?”

“That you would poison her.”

“Pfft—” Robert scoffed again. “As if I’d use a craven’s weapon. Poison is the weapon of women, cravens, and dragons. Do I look like any of those things to you?”

Instead of answering, Jon shook his head. “I told her you weren’t planning to kill her and I’m going to tell you the same thing, Robert. I do believe that her grace is genuine when she says she worries about you,” he said trying to steer the conversation back on track. 

“Why would she?”

“Because she’s your wife. For better or worse, she bound herself to you and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who disvalues family. And you are her family now,” he explained. 

_Family…_ Robert frowned and swirled his goblet. No matter what, his wife was never going to be his family. She could claim she was. She could claim that they were cousins. She could claim that they were bound in marriage, that he was her husband, that she cared for him. She could even take his name—But that would never make her family. How could they be family; he who killed her brother at the Trident and her, whose father and brother took away three people he loved? She could call herself a Baratheon all she wanted, but she would never be one. 

“Is that all you have to say to me, Jon?” Robert asked. “If so I request that we don’t speak of that woman or her kind any longer.”

“Do you really hate her so that you can’t even say her name?” Jon wondered with a tilt of his head. 

The young man clenched his jaw; an action that was more in line with something his younger brother, Stannis would do. The realization made him more irritated. “I grow tired of this talk, Jon. I wish to be alone,” he bit out. 

Jon’s eyes didn’t waver, nor did he look particularly pleased with him. Robert couldn’t find it in himself to care if he disappointed the man. Ned would’ve said that his Baratheon stubbornness was getting the better of him. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. Fuck this day. The others take that woman and Jon if he continues talking about her. He was done. 

“You know my first wife, Jeyne, and I knew each other since we were children,” Jon told him matter-of-factly. “Have I ever told you about my first wife?”

“No.”

“Our mothers were good friends, you see, and as babes, we often played together with the same blocks and toys. I didn’t have any siblings at the time and neither did she and she was my closest friend and confidant. We went everywhere together, practically attached at the hip, and she'd always found a way to drag me into all sorts of trouble. Stealing tarts from the kitchen, putting frogs in her nursemaid's jewelry box, sneaking around the Eyrie in the middle of the night to frighten the servants with ghostly wails—She liked to lark,” Jon smiled weakly, his lips curling upwards in a half-hearted way. “And I was the victim of more than a few of her tricks during the time I knew her.”

Robert could hardly picture Jon doing any of those things. He was too honorable, too honest, that the idea of him playing tricks on others was quite hard to believe. His disbelief must have shown on his face for the other man shook his head with a weary sigh. “What’s with that look? I’ll have you know I was a young man too once. A long time ago,” he said. “I’ve gotten into my fair share of tomfoolery.”

“I find that rather hard to believe,” Robert told him. 

“Well, it’s true. Whether you believe it or not,” he replied. “Anyways Jeyne was the first woman I ever loved. And the day we were wed was the happiest day of my life, I thought that I had found the one thing that so many had desperately searched for and so few were lucky to find. As sentimental as it was I thought she was the other half of my soul and when I lost her… When I lost her and the babe, I— I thought that I would die—No—that I had died right along with them. I suppose a part of me did. A loss such as that changes you and after Jeyne, I wasn’t the same man. I tried drinking myself to death many days and nights. And when I married my second wife, Rowena, I was a wretched drunkard. And, I was cruel and angry and I lashed out at her many times. In the beginning, she tried to help me, tried to curb my drinking, tried to support me as my wife. But I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want her to take Jeyne’s place. I was convinced that she was nothing more than a poor imitation of the woman I lost. In a way, I blamed her even though I knew it wasn’t her fault for what happened and I distanced myself from her and she stopped trying. When the winter chill took her, I wasn’t even in the Eyrie, I was in Gulltown and I didn’t make it back until she had already passed…”

The older man trailed off, sucking in a shaky breath as the memory seemed to overwhelm him. His expression was drawn into one of painful remorse. It shocked Robert. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Jon was rarely one to wear his emotions so clearly. It was unnerving and he found himself at a loss of what to say or do. Fortunately for him, Jon managed to pull himself together on his own before he continued speaking. “There are few decisions I regret in my life, but that is one of them,” he said. “I wasn’t there when she died. She died alone in her bed with a maester and I wasn’t there. Rowena was a good wife. She deserved far better than I could give her. But I only realized that until after she was gone and when she died she took a piece of me with her just like Jeyne.”

Jon fixed his eyes on him now, his face grim, “I don’t wish to see you become a man burdened by regrets, Robert. It’s no way for a man to live. You’re young and you still have time to make the right choices. You still have a means of repairing your marriage, if that’s what you want to do. Or become the sort of man, the sort of king, that is both respected and admired. It’s not too late for you to find happiness, love, to make your own family. Second-chances don’t come around often nor do they stay around for long. You must grab them while you still can. Don’t let this opportunity slip past you because you’ll live to regret it.” 

  
  


Robert was at a loss for words. “Jon, I—”

“Just think about it,” the older man urged him standing from his chair. “That’s all I’m asking is that you think about what it is you truly want. I trust that you’ll make the right choice.” 

“How can you know that?” Robert asked him.

“Because you’re not a bad man, Your Grace. You have more of your father in you than you think,” he told him.

_My father…_ Robert frowned. What would Steffon Baratheon have said about all this? What would his mother? A wave of hot shame flushed through him as he pictured his parents and their reactions to his behavior. Neither of them would have approved. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. I must go attend to other matters.”

Robert nodded slowly. “Yes, yes you must,” he agreed. “Uh, Jon, I’m—”

Jon paused and smiled a toothless grin. “Don’t worry about it, Robert. All is forgiven,” he said. “You know I see you as a son to me, so there’s no need for you to apologize.” And with that the Hand left the solar, leaving Robert with much to consider. 

  
_Gods, I need some more wine,_ he thought to reach for the decanter again with a resigned sigh.


	4. Stannis Baratheon I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to take in Robert’s daughter,” she said.
> 
> “What?” 
> 
> “I want to take in Robert’s daughter—”
> 
> “No, I heard you the first time,” he told her. “But I’m surprised. I didn’t expect you to say that. What brought this on?”
> 
> “I was talking with Jon Arryn and he said something that struck a chord with me about your brother. He said Robert needed someone to love—”
> 
> Stannis scoffed. “My brother has plenty of people to love. A whole brothel full. What he needs is to stop wasting his days away on his frivolous pastimes.” 
> 
> “I do not disagree,” she frowned. “The question is how do we go about convincing him of that. I had this idea that he needed something good to focus his attention on, something that could distract him from his grief until he was able to pull himself back together.”
> 
> “And you thought that something should be a child?” He was incredulous. “And not just any child, but a bastard child?”
> 
> “You think it’s a bad idea?” She asked.
> 
> “Yes.”
> 
> “Ah, blunt and to the point,” she smiled slightly, though her tone was dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is way longer than the other previous three. I suppose it makes sense because this is the first chapter that has not been limited to one conversation. Instead, it's three different conversations about various things. One of which he has with Cersei and two of which are with Shaena and Ser Barristan. 
> 
> Also, heads up I started a new job this week so it might be a while before I can update again depending on my schedule. So enjoy this extra-long chapter and hopefully, it can tide you all over while I work on writing the next one. My next Pov chapter is going to be Viserys. So look forward to that.

**STANNIS I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

“How was your day, my lord?” It was a simple question. Habitual. Nothing of any real consequence nor was there any sincere concern behind it. It served only one purpose as a means of filling the dead silence between them as they ate their supper. 

Stannis responded as he always did. Brusquely and without much elaboration. “It was fine. And yours, my lady?”

“Also fine,” Cersei said sipping on her wine with pursed lips. The candlelight reflected the golden strands of her hair tumbling down to her waist. She had beautiful hair like handspun silk slipping through his fingers, and her eyes almost cat-like and sly watched him with thinly veiled amusement. She had caught him staring again much to his own internal discomfort. “I had tea with Her Grace and Princess Elia this afternoon. The queen informed me that she and the king will be unable to travel with us to Oldtown for my brother’s wedding. She asks that we take their gifts with us when we leave. Her grace has already given me the gift for the bride, but she said that the groom’s present needs a few more days to be polished up. I told her it was no matter to wait as long as she delivered my brother’s gift before we departed from the Red Keep. Do our travel plans remain the same? Are we still to depart within a sennight?”

Stannis nodded once. “The plan remains unchanged.” 

She waited as if she expected him to say more. But when he busied himself with a mouthful of cooked carrots, it became apparent that he had nothing more to add and continued speaking. “I’ve already ordered the servants to begin preparing our luggage. Is there anything specific that you desire to have packed?”

He deliberated for a moment, then gave her a shortlist. His clothes for the wedding, a few of his books, parchment, quills, and ink along with his pair of new leather calf-skinned boots. “Everything else,” he said, “I’ll leave up to your judgment. Simply make sure I have enough pants, tunics, and stockings for the trip. Nothing too ostentatious.” 

“As you wish,” Cersei agreed and set about nibbling a bite of baked chicken. She took such small bites as any Southron lady was taught to do, dapping at her lips with her cloth napkin after each morsel. She had a beautiful mouth too that often stretched itself into a sly smirk or a coquettish smile. Somehow, Stannis always felt as if she might be laughing at him beneath her courtesies and her mindless chatter. 

His wife was a strange woman. Prideful. Stubborn. Prone to bouts of hysteria if she didn’t get her way. At times he wondered why he had ever agreed to such a match. Why had he allowed Tywin Lannister and his goodsister to talk him into it? He knew the reason, of course—or at least the reasons that were given to him by his goodsister and cousin. It was because the queen trusted him to keep an eye on her and the other lions. Because they needed to unite the Seven Kingdoms again under the crown. Because they might make a good match—What a jape. 

In truth, his cousin was usually a fairly good judge of character. However, in this instance, Stannis thought that she had sorely missed her mark by about half a mile. He and his wife had not a thing in common. While he was dour and quiet, she was genial and dramatic. While she preferred expensive fabrics and fine gemstones, he wore roughspun and leather jerkins. While she was beautiful, he was decidedly not. They were complete opposites; she, the bright golden lion, and he, her dark and brooding shadow. 

Women were not his forte. He wasn’t Robert. Conversation did not come easily to him, nor did approaching people he did not know, which meant that most of his youth was spent in the library at Storm’s End reading or staying in the shadows in some ballroom hoping that no one would dare approach him to strike up a conversation. His only experience conversing with women was his own mother and his cousin; the latter of which was just as out of her depth as he was but was comparatively better at faking it, or so she confessed once in a raven she sent to him. Stannis considered himself far more loquacious with a quill and ink than he will ever be with his words. And yet it wasn’t like he could simply write his wife letters for the rest of his life, not when she was seated across the table from him at least. 

“My lord,” Cersei arched a blonde brow at him curiously. “Are you perchance dissatisfied with your dinner?” 

He focused his attention on her just then realizing he had been staring off into space for the past few minutes. There was that look again of veiled humor behind her green eyes. “No,” he frowned. “I was...thinking.” 

“Oh?” She tilted her head and took another sip of her wine. “My mistake, my lord. Your thinking face is not much different from your glowering face. I had thought that those carrots might have personally offended you.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. But he felt himself grow hot under the collar of his doublet. He reached for his glass of water for a drink; hoping that the cool liquid will help him think more clearly. “Who of your family is attending Ser Jaime’s wedding to Leyla Hightower?” He asked her. 

“Most of them it would seem,” she said. “My brother writes to me that father is making a big show of it since his heir, who everyone thought would remain a kingsguard, is finally marrying. As you know Ser Kevan and his wife, Lady Dorna, and cousin Lancel will be traveling with us and there’s my Uncle Tygett and his wife, Darlessa, and Uncle Gerion and my Aunt Genna and her son. My father is even allowing my youngest brother to go as well, but only because Jaime insisted that he be there.”

_ Ah, yes little lord Tyrion... _ He recalled Cersei’s brother mentioning him at their own wedding held at Casterly Rock. Although Stannis had never caught sight of the dwarf child that was Lord Tywin’s greatest shame. The Lord of Casterly Rock kept him out of the public eye as much as possible, convinced that if no one ever saw him then people might just forget that he existed. Stannis knew that his wife reciprocated her father’s feelings toward her youngest brother and anytime a mention of him happened to come up, which was rarely, she would grimace and sneer and quickly change the subject. 

She wasn’t so beautiful when she sneered. But Stannis found that he relaxed around her when she was more openly antagonistic than when she was trying to be something she wasn’t. “Quite the family reunion,” he remarked stiffly. Though she didn’t sound particularly happy to be seeing any of them. 

“Yes. I suppose it will be,” she said rather tiredly. Her voice lacked any enthusiasm. For a moment Stannis thought that she seemed depressed, her mouth pressing into a thin, firm line.

“Do you miss your family?” The question left his mouth unconsciously before he had a chance to think better of it. 

Cersei paused. She blinked and stared him down from across the table. “Do you miss yours, my lord?” She deflected.

“I have all the family here I can handle,” he told her. 

“What about your brother, Renly?” She asked. 

Now it was Stannis’s turn to pause. The youngest of the Baratheon children, the youngest brother, he had been nothing more than a babe when their parents' ship had crashed against the cliffs of Storm's End. Stannis had practically raised him while Robert was off doing who-knows-what with Eddard Stark in the Vale. He would be turning seven in a few moons. The last time he had seen him he was a skinny little thing, malnourished, and just starting to get his strength back after half a year of surviving on nothing but rations of rat meat and potatoes. Maester Cressen has since assured him that he has regained the weight he lost and shows no signs of stunted growth, but still, he cannot simply shake the image of that skeletal little boy. He didn’t think he would ever be able to, even if he were placed right in front of him fat and healthy and smiling. 

“Sometimes,” he said. 

Cersei hummed, “That’s my answer as well.”

“Do you enjoy living in King’s Landing?” He wondered suddenly, feeling curious. 

“I’ve spent most of my life here,” she told him. “My father first brought me here when I was naught but ten and two to serve as one of Her Grace’s lady companions.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” she said. “The smell bothered me at first, but I’ve been here so long that now I’ve grown rather used to it.”

“Storm’s End always smells of rain. It’s a fresh scent. Clean, unlike this place,” he said. 

“Lannisport smells like the sea. Sea and sunshine and goldencups,” she told him. 

“I remember. Have you ever visited Storm’s End?” 

Cersei shook her head. “Cannot say I have had the pleasure.” Her expression turned curious and she licked her lips briefly chasing the taste of wine. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m considering planning a trip there soon in order to overlook some matters,” He told her. “When the time comes, I wondered if you might like to accompany me or remain here in King’s Landing?”

Cersei deliberated for a moment. “I see no issue in traveling with you, my lord,” she said. “When are you planning for this trip to take place?”

“After your brother’s wedding, before the anniversary tournament.” Stannis took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. After he swallowed he went on to say that it would allow Cersei the opportunity to see the Stormlands, show her face to the people, and get to know the Baratheon castle of Storm’s End. All of which she said were astute and pragmatic pursuits in fulfilling her duties as the wife of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Then she mentioned something about looking forward to seeing the castle in which he grew up and how she was regretful that the opportunity couldn’t present itself sooner. “Well, I suppose, that since we will already be traveling for your brother’s wedding we could divert our return journey back to the Red Keep and visit Storm’s End before returning back here,” he considered. “That is if you don’t mind prolonging our trip, my lady.”

“I wouldn’t mind, my lord, if that’s what needs to be done. How urgent are these matters of yours?” She asked.

“Not very. Although they will need to be attended to within the next two moons,” he said. “I understand that may be too much travel in that short of time. We’re expected to stay in Old Town for a fortnight for the wedding and depending on the weather, we’ll be spending at least a moon at sea to and from Oldtown.”

“Well, what do you wish to do?” She wondered. “I’ll need to inform the servants if our luggage is to be repacked to a longer trip than expected.”

It would be more efficient to plan the trip to Storm’s End during the return trip from Old Town, since they would already be sailing through Shipbreaker Bay. However, Stannis knew that his wife would not appreciate having to reorganize their belongings to accommodate the change of plans. “I will leave that up to your discretion, my lady. If you decide to accompany me or to continue on with your Aunt and Uncle is entirely up to you. However, to be sure I’d prefer to have my belongings packed accordingly to accommodate either scenario,” he told her. 

“Then I will prepare just in case,” she nodded once. 

With that matter settled, silence encroached around them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though it was also not comfortable either. There was tension in the air. But there was always tension in the air whenever they were left alone together in a room. He struggled to find something more to add to keep the conversation going. 

“Once we do both visit Storm’s End, whether you decide to come with me or not, if you liked it there you could spend more time there while I attended to matters in the capital. Take a break from the city and enjoy the fresh air,” he said what he thought was a kind and considerate offer. However, at his suggestion a look of alarm passed over his wife’s face.

“No!” She protested rather more forcefully than he expected, and even she looked surprised and chastised by her outburst. 

“No?”

“I mean,” Cersei hesitated considering her words. “My lord, I would prefer to stay with you here in the capital. It’s a wife’s duty to support her husband in all things and how could I do that without remaining by your side? So no, I’d rather not remain in Storm’s End while you are here in the capitol. So I humbly request that you do not send me away.”

“Send you away? I had no plans of sending you away, my lady,” he assured her. “I was suggesting it because you’ve seemed rather troubled as of late. I thought some time away would be of benefit to yourself and help relieve you of your burdens. But if you do not wish to go, I shall not force you to.” 

“Thank you.”

He studied her closely. Curious as thoughts whispered in the back of his mind that her response was beyond suspicious. She had never been so concerned about a wife’s duty before now. If she had been she would’ve insisted that they try for an heir, but after the initial bedding ceremony, Cersei had been rather content to forgo further intercourse and he had not pushed the matter, as busy as he was with his new position on the small council and all the duties it entailed. He wanted to ask her about it. But he had not the slightest clue of how to begin to broach the subject without somehow offending her and fomenting yet another argument. They had had so many as of late and after the whole slipper debacle… Stannis was not willing to start it up again just when the dust was beginning to settle between them. 

He decided to let it go for now and the meal concluded without further incident. Although, a few days later he found himself voicing his concerns to his goodsister. He stood on the rooftop of Maegor’s Holdfast, watching the careful, deliberate brushstrokes of the Queen’s deft hand against the canvas. There was a gentle breeze from the east that ruffled the tassels of her light blue silk shawl she had wrapped around her slender frame. Her hair was braided back out of her face and left to fall unbound down her back in silver ringlets. The vantage point allowed them to look out beyond the walls of the Red Keep to the city beyond and the countryside beyond that. 

“That is strange,” she agreed, not looking up from her canvas and the painted landscape she was engrossed in. “No one likes King’s Landing. It’s a shit city with a poorly planned infrastructure. The only reason people come here is because it’s where the royal court is. If we ever decided to move the court this place would fall into disrepair so fast it’d become the next Duskendale. My guess is your wife is worried that you’re going to ship her off back to Storm’s End and away from the politics.”

“But that’s not my intention,” he said. 

“Oh, I know, cousin. But I don’t believe that your wife does,” she paused and looked up from the canvas to the view in front of her. She squinted her eyes against the sun and held up the end of her brush to act as a measurement. “Cersei has always been someone to assume the worst of people,” she told him. “It’s something we, unfortunately, have in common. And in this place—” she gestured with her hand to the open air around them, “it’s a survival instinct. Without it, you don’t survive in court too long. Please don’t be offended.”

“I’m not.” He assured her. “I just...I don’t know what to say to her. Everything that comes out of my mouth always seems to be the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

“Do you ask her about her day?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “That’s been helping. But after that, we both tend to fall silent. We don’t have much to talk about outside of common pleasantries.”

Shaena frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I wish I could be more helpful in this regard but my marriage isn’t exactly a bed of roses. More a flower bed of stinging nettle, to be honest,” she said. “You are better off going to Jon Arryn for advice than me. At least he has more experience with this sort of thing. Or even Prince Oberyn—”

“No,” Stannis shot down that idea before it could even start. The Dornish prince and he did not get on, or perhaps the more apt phrasing would be to say that his presence made him exceedingly uncomfortable. He reminded him too much of Robert with his devil-may-care attitude and his flirting that was directed at men and women alike. Then again, what else could be expected from a man that has already fathered four bastard daughters, each one from different women, after being exiled from Dorne for killing Lord Edgar Yronwood in a duel with his poison-tipped spear, and earning himself the moniker of the Red Viper. The man was dangerous, duplicitous, and how someone like him secured a position on the small council had largely to do the fact that his sister, Princess Elia, had been the wife of the late crown prince and the mother to his children, who many could argue were the rightful heirs to the throne. Robert had heeded his wife suggestion to appoint him to the position of Master of Coin and, grudgingly, Stannis had to admit that thus far he had been well suited to the role having forged six links of a maester’s chain at the Citadel two of which had been gold and iron signifying an abundant knowledge of economics and warcraft respectively. 

“He’s not that bad,” she assured. “Truly. I think he actually would help you if you asked him.”

“Just because you like him, doesn’t mean I have to,” his short response elicited a sigh from her.

“No, of course not. It was merely a suggestion, cousin. I suppose I have the benefit of knowing him better than most as we share the same sister. And I know that his reputation is rather dicey—” 

“Unsavory,” he corrected.

“Semantics,” she told him. “But he’s harmless.” 

Stannis arched his dark brows in disbelief. “Harmless?” He repeated. “You think he’s harmless?”

“To people who don’t provoke him,” she amended thoughtfully. “Like his name suggests snakes usually leave you alone if you leave them alone. That’s all he is really a snake, a viper.”

“And dragons don’t fear vipers,” he remarked. Dragons don’t fear anything. Perhaps that was what led to their eventual downfall. The Targaryens often lacked the caution of common men, even Shaena who had more caution than her father and elder brother combined was still not cautious enough.

“We are kin after all,” she nodded in agreement. “What is a dragon but a large, fire-breathing, reptile?” 

Stannis looked away from her to Ser Barristan Selmy who stood sentry at the entrance to the roof. The man looked to be enjoying the time outside in the open air and away from all the games of court. He admitted that it was peaceful there and he understood why his cousin favored this spot so much when she wanted time to herself. Time that he surely was intruding upon as he badgered her with questions about his wife. Normally, he wouldn’t have intruded upon her at such a time, but she had requested him here and they had spent the last half hour discussing his marital struggles. He realized that in all that time, she had never told him why she had summoned him there.

“Why am I here?”

Shaena looked up at him curiously. “Do you mean philosophically or physically?” She wondered with a teasing smile. “Because I only have the answer to one of those.”

“The latter,” he clarified. “You called me here, but you haven’t told me what for.”

“Oh, right…” She began mixing a dab of white paint with blue and violet to create a soft shade of lilac. She then added this color to the highlights of the dark, grey storm clouds billowing from the sea. “I wanted your advice on something. I had this idea and I wanted to know if you think there would be any merit in pursuing it.”

“What idea is it?”

“I want to take in Robert’s daughter,” she said.

“What?” 

“I want to take in Robert’s daughter—”

“No, I heard you the first time,” he told her. “But I’m surprised. I didn’t expect you to say that. What brought this on?”

“I was talking with Jon Arryn and he said something that struck a chord with me about your brother. He said Robert needed someone to love—”

Stannis scoffed. “My brother has plenty of people to love. A whole brothel full. What he needs is to stop wasting his days away on his frivolous pastimes.” 

“I do not disagree,” she frowned. “The question is how do we go about convincing him of that. I had this idea that he needed something good to focus his attention on, something that could distract him from his grief until he was able to pull himself back together.”

“And you thought that something should be a child?” He was incredulous. “And not just any child, but a bastard child?”

“You think it’s a bad idea?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“Ah, blunt and to the point,” she smiled slightly, though her tone was dry. “Care to elaborate on why?”

“It would set a precedent,” he said. “If you took in one bastard, it would be expected that you would then take in all of his bastards. And knowing my brother, it’s not going to be one or two but half a dozen at the very least. And what of your own children, Shaena? Robert’s bastards would compete with yours for their father’s attention, they would be a threat to their inheritance, and it could lead to another series of rebellions like the Blackfyres.”

He listed these facts off succinctly and matter-of-factly while Shaena pursed her lips. Clearly, she was displeased by his lack of enthusiasm for the idea. But how could he possibly be pleased with an idea that could very well jeopardize the future of this already fragile peace that had been established after the war?

“Those are very valid arguments,” she said. “I won’t say that everything you just said hasn’t already crossed my mind. It has.”

“And you still think it’s a good idea?” He wondered.

“No...I don’t know. Mayhaps or mayhaps not. But I know I need to do something to dampen the hostility between us. I thought it could act as a peace offering,” she said. 

“Like you haven’t already given him that and then some?” He thought over what she was proposing. The queen had gone out of her way to accommodate Robert. She allowed him the freedom to shirk his responsibilities with the small council, to spend his time drinking and hunting in the Kingswood, to falling into bed with every tavern wench, maid, or brothel worker from here to there. She had given his brother a crown, a keep, a princess for a bride to replace the lord’s daughter he was set to marry. It was her who had sent the raven with the order to end the siege of Storm's End. She was the one to hire that smuggler to ship food to feed himself and Renly when Robert was off fighting in the Riverlands. She was the reason that the war even ended with the death of her father. All that she had asked in return was the lives of herself and her family and that Robert rule in their stead, but he couldn’t even give her that, leaving her to shoulder the responsibilities of the throne on her own narrow shoulders. Which she did without complaint while Robert continued to publicly shame her with his infidelity and his barbed japes. 

No, she had given enough. She had atoned enough for the slights of her brother and for the sins of her father. Stannis ground his teeth together as the ire he felt towards his elder brother on his goodsister’s behalf boiled in his chest. Robert wasn’t the only one who was slighted. 

“It’s time that you stop pandering to him,” he told her. “You need to assert yourself more. Stop using Lord Jon as a buffer.”

“I know. You’re right,” she sighed again, squeezing her eyes shut with a grimace. “I need to speak to him about these matters. I know I’ve been putting it off. But I will talk to him.”

“When?”

“Soon,” she promised. “Before you and lady Cersei return from your trip. Speaking of which, I have that gift for Ser Jaime that I still need to give you. It’s in my chambers. Remind me in a little while and I’ll give it to you.” 

“Alright,” he agreed solemnly and stepped closer to admire the painting she was working on. It was still largely unfinished, but it had begun to start taking shape over the days that she had begun working on it. The focal point was the ruins of the old Dragon Pit on top of Rhaenys’ Hill, the ginormous structure jutting upwards like the discarded bones of a skeletal beast to where the great dome had collapsed and fallen inwards. He could still see the grandeur in the details of the architecture from where they stood that Shaena managed to capture with a thin little brush and light, quick strokes. Off to the right was the Sept of Baelor on Visenya’s Hill shining in golden hues as the setting sun reflected off the tops of the seven domed-spires the details of which were hazier and less defined to direct the viewer's attention back to the Dragon Pit. To the right of that was the Mud Gate and the docks filled with ships of all manner of vibrant, billowing, sails. And beyond that was Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea where the sky turned from a brilliant burnt orange and gold to a soft pink and lavender to indigo and a deep dark grey of an approaching storm. 

“What do you think?” She paused and looked up at him as he stood towering over her. 

“Beautiful.” Her light lilac eyes brightened at his praise and she smiled softly at the painting as she nodded her agreement. 

“It’s turning out better than I expected.”

“You’ve always been talented with this,” he remarked looking back at the view before them. It was a somewhat cool day of cloudless blue sky. The sun seemed to give everything a hazy, faded look, blocking out the colors that were so striking on the canvas. In comparison, it all looked rather lackluster to the dramatic and foreboding landscape the queen had envisioned. He had witnessed court painters who couldn’t do half as well when it came to capturing such a vision.

“The one redeeming quality I inherited from my father,” she said then frowned the way she often did when the topic of the late king came up in conversation. She seemed to drift away from him for a moment, her thoughts leagues away from where she was with him, and she tightened her grip on the paintbrush. “I think I’m done for today,” she decided, suddenly taking the brush and soaking it in a crock filled with water to wash the paint from the horsehair bristles. “Ser Barristan.”

The kingsguard stepped forward, his white armor glinting in the sunlight. He was one of the senior members of the order along with Ser Gerold, who had earned his place after fighting and slaying Maelys the Monstrous in single combat during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had served two previous kings, first Jaehaerys II during his brief three-year reign, then his son Aerys II through his twenty-one-year descent into madness. He had sided with Prince Rhaegar in the end, fighting at the Battle of the Trident, while his brothers Prince Lywen Martell and Ser Jonothor Darry died to protect their prince Robert had decided to spare this man and keep him in his service. A decision of which has proven to be the right one as the man was a gifted swordsman, the best in the kingsguard, a well-respected knight. “Your grace,” the knight bowed his head of greying blond hair to look down at the Queen. 

“Help me with my easel and paints, if you please,” she requested as though it were not an order. “And be careful with the canvas, it’s still wet.” Then she set about cleaning and drying all her brushes with a linen rag before she turned back to him. “So you truly think it’s a terrible idea to bring your brother’s daughter here?”

“Without question,” he said. 

“And what of your opinion, Ser Barristan?” She looked to the knight who had been listening in on their conversation without a word. The older man paused and stopped to consider all that had been said. 

“I don’t wish to presume,” he began. 

“No, please do,” she urged. “You out of anyone else would know the pitfalls of such an action.”

“Well, Lord Stannis gives you sound advice, your grace. Politically such a move could prove to be a folly to you and your children. And as the king’s firstborn, the girl would have a special place in the king’s favor possibly over your other children. If she were a son, I’d strongly caution you against such a rash action as what you’re proposing, however since she is not I believe that it would negate many of the counter-arguments. It is unlikely that she could inherit the crown or even be considered. It’s any children she might have, especially sons, that you would need to be wary of,” he said.

“But if she were raised here as one of my own would that not influence her to see us as a family? She’s still young, isn’t she? Around Rhaenys age, I think, and of the two of them Rhaenys would have far more reason to plot against the crown than the king’s natural-born daughter would and yet she’s living at court.”

Stannis interjected. “That’s different,” he said. “She’s your niece and the daughter of the Princess of Dorne.” 

“And she would be the daughter of the king,” she countered, “and my...third cousin? Second cousin once removed? One of those. It’s not as if she isn’t my blood as well.”

“It sounds as if you’ve already made up your mind, your grace.” Ser Barristan observed her carefully. Stannis did too. Clearly, there was a direction toward which she was leaning, and instead of both their warnings to the contrary, it did nothing more than to solidify the idea in her mind. He was smart enough to recognize when an argument was lost and fell on deaf ears. 

“We can’t tell you what to do, but whatever you decide there would have to be conditions,” he said. “Whether the girl comes to live here or not, you will need to sit down with Robert to discuss the particulars.”

“I had planned on doing that. Do you think if I proposed the idea that Robert would agree?” She asked him. 

He stopped to consider it. “I think so, yes.”

He thought of all that time Robert had spent in the Vale. He thought of how exuberant Robert had been when he learned of the news of his daughter’s birth. He thought of how proud his brother had been when he shared stories of Mya’s first words, her first steps, the first time he let her shoot a bow. His brother loved children. He had doted on Renly whenever he returned to Storm’s End. He had taught the boy how to swim, how to fish, how to ride in a saddle, how to properly hold a sword while Stannis had taught their little brother his letters, how to count, how to read and write, and the practical matters of running a keep. He knew that if the queen proposed this plan, then Robert would readily and happily agree to it. 

But what of the girl? What of Mya? Was this the best environment for her to be raised in? 

He thought of his brother’s drinking, his quick temper when he was in his cups, and his various bedmates. He didn’t trust his brother to raise a child. To raise any child. Which would mean all the parental responsibilities would fall onto Shaena again. She was already playing mother to her two younger siblings and father to her brother’s children. He wondered if she could handle another responsibility on top of all the others she managed in her day-to-day life. 

How much would it be before it broke her? 

How much longer would she be able to withstand it? 

He had already seen her slipping as of late. He had noticed the dark circles under her eyes from too many sleepless nights, the goblet of wine during the small council meetings, the way her clothing seemed to hang loosely on her as if she had stopped eating. Maester Pycelle said that she was showing signs of extreme fatigue and her coughing attacks had become more and more frequent. There were concerns about her health. She had never been a particularly hale and hearty young woman. As a child, the maesters had forced her to spend long periods on bed rest so as to not exacerbate any further coughing attacks. Jon Arryn had attempted to persuade her to slow down, to relax, and to consider taking a day for herself. He had tried to convince her that she and Robert should attend Ser Jaime’s wedding in Oldtown, but she had refused to claim there was still so much to do that she couldn’t possibly leave the capital. 

He didn’t know how to voice any of these concerns to her, however, just like his wife Stannis found himself at a loss of words. He followed behind her silent after she had packed up all her paints and her brushes emptying the crock of dirty water over the side of the roof to the moat below. Ser Barristan followed behind him carrying the easel and the wet canvas. She instructed the knight to set the items aside in her solar while she left to go fetch the wedding gift she had meant to give him. She returned a few minutes later with a long wooden box one and half hands in width and the length of his arm with a carved gold inlay of two roaring lions. She set it down on the low table placed in front of the plush sofa and gestured for him to open it. 

Stannis bent down and undid the golden clasps before opening the lid as instructed. He had guessed immediately that its contents was a sword based solely on the size of the wooden box. But when he opened it, he was surprised to see that not only was the weapon finely made it was also exceedingly rare. 

“Valyrian steel,” he raised the sword out of its scabbard with appreciation.

She nodded. “It is.” 

The metal rippled in the light as he turned it to inspect the blade. These swords were not cheaply bought nor were they readily available to be sold. Many who had them refused to part with them and of the few who would it was said that you were better off buying an army of a three-hundred-thousand strong as they ranged about the same price. Even the Lannisters, the richest house in the Seven Kingdoms, had been unable to procure one of these highly sought after weapons after losing their Valyrian sword Brightroar across the Narrow Sea. Tywin Lannister had been attempting to buy a replacement from lesser, poorer houses for years and had always been rebuffed. It was an exceedingly generous gift. 

_ Too generous, _ he thought,  _ for a wedding gift from the crown. _

He studied the golden lion pommel, the golden inlay on the hilt, the house words etched into the scabbard.  _ Hear me roar, _ he read brushing his thumb over the lettering. It was obvious that much thought and care had gone into crafting the weapon along with much gold. “Robert agreed to this?” He wondered. 

“He didn’t disagree,” she told him. “I didn’t bother to tell him. But his opinion is of little consequence on this matter as I didn’t use the crown’s gold for this gift. Not one single copper.”

“Then how did you…” He paused and turned to her unnerved, “This isn’t what I think it is, is it?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s not Blackfyre and it’s not Dark Sister,” she assured him. 

“Then how did you acquire it?” He asked her. 

But Shaena kept her answer short and vague, mindful of the kingsguard standing in the room with them. “It was a gift.” He wondered if she would have told him more had they been alone, but he doubted it.

“And you wish to give it away to House Lannister?” He placed the sword back in its box and redid the clasps before he turned to look at her. She raised her brows at him and tilted her head slightly in question. 

“You disapprove, Stannis.” 

He hesitated. “I’m trying to understand your reasoning,” he said. “This gift is very generous. And I wonder if you have not considered the ramifications of it, Shaena. This might fuel the rumors about you and Ser Jaime.”

“Yes, I suspect it will,” she nodded. 

“But you’re still going to give it to him,” he surmised. 

“Yes.”

He wanted to ask why. But a part of him was wary of the answer she might give. Kingslayer was what people whispered about Ser Jaime and the queen when they were out of earshot. People speculated often and loudly on the circumstances of the Mad King’s death, of how a lot of the facts were vague or nonexistent, how there was so much time between the disappearance of the king from his chambers and the discovery of his body in the Red Keep’s dungeon, how his daughter had been the last person to see him alive as far as anyone knows, how his hand and head pyromancer Wisdom Rossart had been found floating face down in the bowels of the sewers in King’s Landing, and the gold cloak who had been found a few days after that with the corpse of the king both with flayed faces. There were several details that didn’t line up. Many questions that needed asking, but many were too afraid of ending up like men that had been hung for regicide, men that many suspected had known something of the true events and had been executed to ensure their silence. 

Stannis didn’t believe it. Or more he didn’t want to believe it. He knew her. He thought that he knew her. And he did not want to consider that she could be the kind of person who would murder her father in his sleep and flay his face. But this was also the same woman who had, without question, given essence of nightshade to a company of three-hundred people and had every intention of blowing up the entire city of King’s Landing with wildfire had Robert not agreed to the peace treaty. War had changed her. It had changed all of them. She was no long the same demure princess from his boyhood just as he was no longer the same troubled boy. 

But had she truly changed so much?

She had observed him in silence, her expression kept perfectly still. After a moment, she leaned back against the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “Words are wind,” she repeated the old mantra. “If people want to talk, I’ll let them talk but I’m not expected to listen, and neither are you. You only give credence to those who you listen to, cousin.”

“So you choose to ignore it?” He asked her.

“No,” she disagreed. “I respond with my actions. This sword is a gesture of goodwill and reparation for slights committed against house Lannister while my father was king. It is a gift to Lord Tywin more than it is a gift to his son. That is all.”

“Most won’t see it that way,” he said.

“Probably not,” she agreed. “But the ones who matter will and that’s all I’m concerned with. I don’t have to explain myself to other people.” She stood from the sofa, brushing her hands against the fabric of her silk shirts. “Now if there’s not anything else you require from me. I wish you a pleasant trip to and from Oldtown. Take care, cousin.” 

He stood as well and took the box in his arms. “Yes, you as well.” He said stiffly as she patted him briefly on the arm; a small smile on her lips. “You’ll speak to Robert while I’m gone.”

“Yes, yes. I will. I promise,” she said as they walked to the door. “I’ll sort it all out before you return, I’m sure.” 

That’s what she said to him as the door closed behind him. When his brother and cousin saw them off on the ship Swancrest, he watched them from the deck as the royal couple stood a foot away from each other and wondered if when he returned that distance would be closed or only widened further. He looked to his side where Cersei stood with her Aunt, Dorna, watching the shore slip away and wondered the same thing about his own wife. 


	5. Viserys Targaryen I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The mighty dragons bowing to the stag. They say we’re weak. But we’re not weak! You are. Father told us that the dragon does not bow to lesser beasts, but you did. You did and you betrayed us! Father would hate what you’ve done to this family!”
> 
> “You mean what he did to this family,” Shaena cut in sharply. “Do you think father is without blame? That Rhaegar is? Surely, you’ve heard what others say about them.”
> 
> Viserys shook his head. “Lies. It all lies,” he argued. 
> 
> “So it’s a lie that father was burning people alive?”
> 
> “They broke the law!”
> 
> “What law? There is no law that justifies that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been so long without an update. I'm been super busy balancing two jobs and trying to get back on my feet that I have barely had the time to sit down and write. But I'm tired of looking at this chapter, so even if I'm not a hundred percent satisfied with it, I'm posting it anyway just so I can keep moving. I've gotten the basic point across, hopefully, so it's time I get it out of the way. I plan for the next chapter to be an Elia POV before we get back to Robert. Fingers crossed it does not take me another 2 months to post it.

**VISERYS I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

Viserys hated family dinners. Truly. There was nothing more tedious and distasteful to him than sitting around the table every evening and pretending that they were supposed to be a big happy family. But his sister insisted on it. No matter how much he complained, whined, or tried to finagle his way out of it, she would inevitably find him wherever he was, or send someone to find him, and he would be promptly escorted and sat down beside his niece and nephew whether he was hungry or not. 

Tonight he had less patience for keeping up the farce than the others. He didn’t even bother to mask his sour disposition as he sat in his chair and picked at his vegetables. He scrutinized it as he had seen his father so often do when he had been alive. His father had everything tasted for poison and if he hadn’t seen someone eat it in front of him, he wouldn’t have touched it. It wasn’t as if the boy thought the parsnips were poisoned, but he wondered if his sister had gone through the same precautions to ensure that it was safe to eat. Knowing her, she likely considered it to be unnecessary and something only their father did in his paranoia. Lies. Father hadn’t been paranoid. He knew people had been plotting against him. He knew people were not to be trusted. And he had been right. Those who were closest to him betrayed him. They turned on him and murdered him, butchered him like an animal. And he couldn’t sit here anymore and pretend that his sister wasn’t involved. That she didn’t...that she didn’t…

Viserys squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together as anger coiled in his chest.

“Are you unwell, Viserys?” Elia’s voice was tinged with concern as she looked over at him from across the table. The Dornish princess was seated to the right of his sister, who raised her brows as if to silently second the question. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, stabbing at his dinner with a bit more ferocity than before. He looked down at his plate and frowned. Tonight’s dinner was venison with a bittersweet cranberry sauce and seasonal vegetables of boiled beets, parsnips, and cabbage. 

“You’re not eating.” Shaena paused with a spoonful of mashed yams held delicately between her fingers and fixed her eyes upon him. The white-haired infant sitting beside her made a sound of protest at the delay. The little welp tried grabbing at the spoon with her chubby, sticky hands. Viserys refused to call her his sister. No matter how many times Shaena told him to. 

“I don’t like parsnips,” he grumbled.

“And what’s wrong with the meat?” She asked in a tone she often used when she was addressing the unreasonable requests of the court. It was careful, though cold and deliberate. Although, Viserys too detected a hint of exasperation in the lines around her mouth.

“It tastes bad,” he said. 

Shaena leaned over and held the spoon Daenerys’ mouth, who gobbled it up happily and cooed. “You haven’t even touched it, how would you know?”

“I have. I don’t like it,” he said.

His sister frowned, her expression becoming stern as she appraised him. “You haven’t. Don’t lie to me when I’m sitting right in front of you, brother.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“You will be if you don’t eat,” was what she threw back across the table. He shook his head and tightened his jaw and the muscles in his sister’s jaw clenched. “Viserys,” she began her tone warning. 

“I said I’m not hungry!” Viserys shouted, his voice startling Rhaenys and Aegon and frightening Daenerys, who began to cry as Shaena turned to soothe her, picking the babe up out of her highchair and settling her onto her lap. 

“There’s no reason for you to yell,” she said. “I’ll remind you not to take that tone with me.”

That made him angrier than before. “Don’t lecture me as if you're Mother.” 

“Viserys,“ Elia cut a worried look between him and Shaena who had stiffened in her seat. “That’s no way to speak to your—“

“Oh, shut up, Elia! Don’t butt in where you don’t belong—“

“Viserys!” Shaena glared, her expression flushing with anger. “You will not speak to Elia with such disrespect because you’re in a sour mood. Apologize.”

Stubbornness flared in his chest and he shook his head. His refusal only served to make his sister angrier as she stared back at Elia who seemed less offended and more concerned at the rising tension between the two siblings. She tried de-escalating the situation by assuring his sister that she was fine and Viserys didn’t need to—

“No. He does,” Shaena interrupted and turned back to him. “Apologize, Viserys. Now.”

“No.”

She gave him a once over, her eyes settling on the darkening bruises on his face from the training yard. She hadn’t said anything about it when he had sat down at the table, but Viserys knew that she had seen the obvious marks on his face. “Elia, please take Daenerys to the nursery I need to speak to with Viserys alone...”

“Of course,” Elia nodded and took the babe in her arms with a smile. “Come here, sweetling. Rhaenys, Aegon let’s go.” 

Viserys didn’t dare look away from his sister as the group of them left the Queen’s Ballroom, nor did he look up when Ser Brynden and Ser Gerold closed the door behind them as they too stepped out of the room. It wasn’t a good sign. He knew he had struck a nerve with his sister and that she was likely to tear into him without anybody there to witness it. Everyone always thought she was too sweet and gentle to get angry. Those people didn’t know his sister.

She sat back in her chair and lifted the goblet of wine to her lips. She had been drinking more and more, he had noticed, just like that drunkard she called a husband. After a moment, she set down the wine and pursed her lips with disapproval. “What’s going on, Viserys?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ser Willem tells me that you got into a fight today in the training yard. He says you attacked a squire without provocation,” she said. 

“That’s a lie. He started—“

“I don’t care who started it,” Shaena cut him off. “You cannot be getting into fights.”

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as his temper flared. “You have no right to tell me what to do!” 

“I have every right!” Shaena's voice rose in volume suddenly like wood cracking in flame. “I’m your guardian until you come of age and I have every right to tell you what to do when you’ve proven you cannot make decisions for yourself. You may not like it, but that’s the way things are.” 

“I wish Rhaegar was here.” Viserys spat the words out with as much venom as he could muster and dropped his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. “You think just because you’re the only one left that you get to order me about how you please. Well, I wish it wasn't you! I wish you had died and he was still here! Or mother or father or anyone! Anyone would be better than being stuck here with you!”

A dark look passed over his sister’s face. He could see the black rage that settled into the cracks of the facade she had kept carefully in place. That’s right. That’s who she really is. She is not the meek, sickly woman she portrays. She betrayed Father. She betrayed Rhaegar. And Mother too. She’s the one who gave away their family’s throne, their legacy, their agency away to the usurper. It’s all her fault. Everything is her fault. 

“That’s what you think?’

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you ruined everything! You made us a laughing stock. Everyone is laughing at us. Even the bloody Freys!” He thought back to the trainyard and the Frey squire who had dared to mock him calling him a salamander without teeth. The other boys had laughed at that. Devan Lannister and Wilas Tyrell and that page from House Algood. “The mighty dragons bowing to the stag. They say we’re weak. But we’re not weak! You are. Father told us that the dragon does not bow to lesser beasts, but you did. You did and you betrayed us! Father would hate what you’ve done to this family!”

“You mean what he did to this family,” Shaena cut in sharply. “Do you think father is without blame? That Rhaegar is? Surely, you’ve heard what others say about them.”

Viserys shook his head. “Lies. It all lies,” he argued. 

“So it’s a lie that father was burning people alive?”

“They broke the law!”

“What law? There is no law that justifies that.”

“They were traitors! Father said—”

“Yes, Father said,” Shanea rolled her eyes. “Father was delusional. He was mad.”

“He was not!” Viserys shouted, his face blooming red in his anger. “How dare you say that about him? You’re just like all the rest.” His father wasn’t mad. He wasn’t. She’s lying. Everyone’s lying.

“You know nothing of which you speak, _valonqar._ _Kepa iksin daor se vala ao pendagon īles,_ ” She looked for a moment regretful as she leaned back in her chair. “He was cruel and violent and suspicious of everyone. Mother kept it from you. We all did. We wanted to shield you from it. Perhaps that was a mistake, but mother thought it best. she didn’t want him to hurt you like he did everyone else.”

“Father would never have hurt me,” Viserys was more offended by the suggestion than he had been when she had claimed him mad. The memory he had of his father was quiet and brooding, yes, but he had always treated him kindly. It was him who used to walk him down the Great Hall and tell him stories of all the dragons and the fourteen Valyrian gods of which some of them were named. He was the one who had given Viserys gifts and gifted him with his Valyrian dagger on his seventh nameday. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Shaena! You’re lying. You’re always lying.”

“I’m lying?” She was incredulous as she crossed her arms under her breast. “You weren’t there Viserys. You weren’t there to see what he did to Mother. What do you think those bruises just magically appeared around her neck? You’ve noticed them. I know you have because you’ve asked me about them. Who do you think put them there?”

Viserys froze as the realization struck him. Rhaella had always hidden her skin from view. She had worn high collar dresses and long flowing sleeves that hid her hands from sight. But he suddenly remembered how once he had noticed some dark spots around her collar and he had asked her what happened. She had told him a soft gentle voice that it was nothing for him to worry about. “Father wouldn’t—”

“He would. And he did.” 

Viserys shook his head. “No. No, you’re lying.”

Shaena didn’t bother to argue with him and continued on. “I was the one who stitched up her wounds after every beating. I was the one who stayed with her after and held her while she cried. I was there through the deaths of Aegon and Jaehaerys and I was the one who picked up the pieces when father blamed her for it. And all of that doesn’t even scratch the surface. Our father was a monster,” she said. 

“No,” Viserys pushed himself back and stood up from his chair. The table legs scraped harshly against the floor. “I don’t believe you!”

“Why not? Why do you still defend him? What has that man ever done for you?” She asked. 

“He’s done everything—”

“He’s done nothing! He was a failure as a man and a failure as a father!” Shaena’s composure broke and for a moment Viserys was frightened by the ferocity of her anger. He took a step backward as she too stood up from her chair, slamming her palms against the table. His eyes darted toward the door where he knew Ser Gerold and Ser Brynden stood sentry on the other side of it. He expected one of them would burst in then and see what all the commotion was about, but after a moment the door remained closed and the siblings were not interrupted. 

The young prince squared his shoulders and tilted his chin up in defiance. He wasn’t going to show fear. Especially not to her. “Is that why you killed him?” 

That lifted some of the anger from his sister's steely lilac eyes and she looked at him confused. "Excuse me?”

She tried playing dumb. But that wasn’t going to work with him. She wasn’t going to talk her way out of this or try to justify what she did. He wasn’t going to let her. “Do you think me ignorant of what people say about you too?” He asked her, “ Do you think I haven’t heard what you did? How you—” He couldn’t say it. He could barely even wrap his mind around it, much less force the words out of his mouth. 

Shaena's face dawned with realization. “There it is. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You think I killed our father?”

“Didn’t you?” 

He challenged her to deny it. But she didn’t. Instead, she fell back in her chair and sighed heavily as if the act of sitting was such great effort. “How could you ask me that?” She wondered. “The man was my father too, Viserys.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” She had the gall to look hurt by the accusation, yet he didn’t believe it for a moment. 

“Nor will I because it’s a ridiculous question. You should know better than to listen to rumors, brother. I thought mother would’ve taught you that.”

“She also said that sometimes there is truth in what people say, but there is more truth in what they don’t,” he retorted. “You saying nothing on the subject only makes you look guilty. Is it true or not?” 

“I will not entertain this conversation anymore...”

She wouldn’t deny it. All he wanted was to tell him it wasn’t true. Or for her to say something, anything on the subject. He just wanted to know what happened. He wanted the truth. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something that twisted and swirled and made him feel as if the earth was tilting under his feet. He felt sick. 

She wouldn’t deny it. 

He couldn’t be here anymore. He couldn’t look at her. He took another step back. A cold sweat broke out of the back of his neck and he wondered if he could safely make it out the door before she or Ser Gerold or Ser Brynden attempted to stop him.

She did it. He knew it without a shadow of a doubt. She had more or less confirmed it herself. But what was he to do now that knew? What could he do? Who was going to believe him? No. Belief wasn’t the problem, it was in finding someone who was not afraid to confront the queen. There was no one he could think of that would dare. 

He took another step back. His face showed such disgust that he caught his sister wince. “The only monster in this family is you,” he told her. Then without looking back he spun on his heels and fled from the room before either his sister or the kingsguard could stop him. 

He ran out of the Queen’s Ballroom, out of Maegor’s Holdfast, past the training yard, up the serpentine steps, past the godswood and the sept. He ran until he was somewhere deep within the bowels of the Red Keep. In the hidden passageways and maze of corridors, until he was far enough away from everyone that he felt as if he was well and truly alone. He remembered how Rhaegar used to take him down here. How they used to explore the castle and he would pretend that they were on some great adventure like the knights of the stories. He wished he was here. He wished he had never left. 

If he had never left, none of this would have happened. 

Stupid Rhaegar. Why did he leave him alone here? Why did everyone leave him alone here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valyrian Translation:
> 
> Valonqar = Little brother
> 
> Kepa iksin daor se vala ao pendagon īles. = Father was not the man you think he was.


	6. Elia Martell I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What were you saying about Viserys? I interrupted before and you never finished…”
> 
> Elia recognized the change in the conversation for the diversion it was but made no protest of it. Targaryens were a stubborn lot. She had learned that after her marriage to Rhaegar. She knew that pushing was not the way to get results. You cannot fight fire with fire or the fire would only grow hotter. Only water to temper it, water that was smooth and flowing and calm. 
> 
> “I was saying that sending Viserys away will only increase the hostility between you two because he will see it as you abandoning him,” Shaena said nothing, but her head tilted as she listened. “He’s a boy who just lost half his family. Both his parents. A brother he admired. If you sent him away from King’s Landing to be fostered he’d lose a sister too.”
> 
> Shaena let out a shaky breath clenching the woolen threads of the blanket on her lap. “I think I’m already lost to him,” she confessed. Her voice was no louder than a whisper that Elia had to strain to hear it. But she heard it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two months between updates, sorry! I suck I know. But anyways I was a dummy who forgot that I altered my original outline so that some minor details needed to be changed in the beginning chapter of this fic. The main thing was I pushed Shaena's age back a few months from having just turned Seventeen to being sixteen about to turn seventeen in a few months. Also, I altered the order of these chapters again, so I plan for the next chapter to still be a Robert POV but it's not going to be set in the present timeline. Instead, we're going to jump backward for the next six chapters to various points before, during, and shortly after the rebellion. I figured this would be the most cohesive way of telling this story with every other character POV chapter being a flashback chapter and the current timeline in order to give context. I'm still working on my outlines for this fic, so chapters are going to be a little sporadic as I iron out all the details. Between work and sleep and work again I don't have as much time to write as I used to.

**Elia I.**

* * *

_King's Landing, 284 A.C._

Elia worried about the fragile state of things between Viserys and Shaena. He was just a boy—only seven years old—and to have already suffered so much turmoil and strife. She sympathized with him. She understood that he was scared and confused and mourning the deaths of his family that he had just so recently lost; but that did make it any less concerning. Each day it seemed as if the boy drifted further and further away, closing himself off from the rest of the world. She feared that this self-imposed isolation could only do him harm. Shaena shared her fears and had tried to socialize him with other boys his age to no avail. 

“I don’t know what to do with him,” Shaena confessed later that night after the children had been all put to sleep in the nursery. “Perhaps I should look into having him fostered someplace else.”

“You’d send him away?” The Dornish Princess rose her brows at that. The glow from the fireplace illuminated her disapproval of the idea. The two women were seated in the Queen’s solar curled up on opposite sides of the chaise lounge as they discussed the blowup at dinner. 

“This place isn’t good for him,” Shaena said matter-of-factly. “I doubt it’s good for anyone. But it’s certainly no good for him. There’s too much death here. Too many ghosts haunt this keep.” 

“So you would rather send him away to save him from being haunted by the memories?” 

“To put it plainly. But you don’t approve of the idea I gather for your tone,” the Queen observed. 

Elia nodded once and brushed a dark tendril of hair over her shoulder. “You’re correct. I do not approve.”

Shaena turned away from her and looked toward the fire burning in the hearth. “Why?”

“Do you want to hear why?” The Dornish woman fixed her good sister with a pointed stare. There was a warning there. “You might not like what I have to say.”

Shaena waved off that concern with her hand. “By all means, don’t hold back on my account Elia,” she told her. 

“My main concern is that sending Viserys away will only make things worse between the two of you—“

Shaena scoffed. “It would be unlikely that things can get much worse than they are. He already thinks me a monster.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No. Not really,” A somber look passed over her as she toyed with the ring on her finger. Elia watched her twist it around and around. It was her father’s ring, Elia knew. A thick silver band with the Targaryen sigil impressed into it that the late King had used to seal his letters and sign his official decrees. Shaena had kept it after her father’s body was found in the dungeons and had scarcely taken it off since, although Elia didn’t quite understand why she kept it on her person nor why she always fiddled with it when she was deep in thought. She doubted that even Shaena truly knew why. “I haven’t given him much reason to trust me. But how am I supposed to explain all this to a boy of seven? He loved our father best. He never knew the kind of man he really was. It’s our own fault that we never let him see it, still, I can’t allow him to continue living in this disillusion that our father was some great man.” 

“Why don’t you simply tell him the truth?” Elia suggested. “That’s all he wants from you. Tell him what really happened and not that story we fabricated for the court.” 

“And what truth is that? We don’t even know what the truth is,” Shaena frowned, not turning her face from the flames. She stared as if the fire might give her answers to the question they had all been asking themselves. But after a moment she turned back to her, dissatisfied and irritated. “Besides, he wouldn’t believe anything I say at this point. He thinks I’m a liar and that I killed our father. Don’t know why I’m surprised, he’s only repeating what everyone else already suspects.”

“I don’t suspect you. Ser Jaime doesn’t suspect you,” Elia placed her hand on the queen’s lap overtop the woolen blanket she had wrapped around herself to keep out the chilly evening air. “We know you had nothing to do with it.” 

Shaena gently covered Elia’s hand, her lips twitching upwards in a small, soft smile. “Thank you,” she breathed shakily. “I don’t think I could’ve managed all this on my own without you and Ser Jaime… I’m just grateful you’re my sister.”

Elia squeezed her hand. “I’m grateful you’re my sister too. Everything you’ve done for me and the children. Everything you’ve continued to do for us. I couldn’t have asked for a better woman to call my family. But I worry about you, you know? Taking all these responsibilities on by yourself… It’s a lot for one person. I wish you would let others help you.”

“Haven’t I let you help me?” The younger woman looked perplexed. 

“Not enough,” the princess told her. “You know I could do more for you than you ask me to do.”

“Do you not like managing the charities or the keep?” Shaena asked. 

Elia shook her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I do like it. I enjoy the teas and the luncheons and the visits to the orphanages—”

“Yet you want to do more,” Shaena surmised coolly. “Because you think me incapable?” 

“No,” Elia squeezed her sister’s hand, her expression stern. “I think you’re more than capable. But it’s your health that concerns me. You haven’t been well as of late. You haven’t been well for months. I fear that you’re working yourself to exhaustion. How many times have you skipped meals for small council meetings? How many nights have you forgone sleep to draft some new legislation or revise trade agreements? How many times have you fallen asleep at that desk of yours?”

“I only fell asleep at my desk once,” Shaena began to object only for Elia to shake her head. 

“No, once you fell asleep on a partially dried parchment and had ink all over your face,” she corrected. “But you’ve fallen asleep at that desk a hundred times. Don’t deny it.”

A queer look passed over the young queen’s face before she raised her brows in question. “You've watched me sleep a hundred times?” 

Elia barked out a laugh and rolled her eyes, pulling her hand away to retrieve her goblet of Dornish Red from the side table. “I didn’t mean literally.” She took a sip, then pursed her lips. 

Shaena smiled briefly, a soft laugh escaping from her lips as well. “Well, I should hope not. That would mean someone has not been doing their job and remaining at their post.” She glanced past her, over her shoulder to the closed door where a knight of the kingsguard was stationed on the other side of it. The smile fell from her face just as swiftly as it appeared, being replaced with somber deliberation. “What were you saying about Viserys? I interrupted before and you never finished…”

Elia recognized the change in the conversation for the diversion it was but made no protest of it. Targaryens were a stubborn lot. She had learned that after her marriage to Rhaegar. She knew that pushing was not the way to get results. You cannot fight fire with fire or the fire would only grow hotter. Only water to temper it, water that was smooth and flowing and calm. 

“I was saying that sending Viserys away will only increase the hostility between you two because he will see it as you abandoning him,” Shaena said nothing, but her head tilted as she listened. “He’s a boy who just lost half his family. Both his parents. A brother he admired. If you sent him away from King’s Landing to be fostered he’d lose a sister too.”

Shaena let out a shaky breath clenching the woolen threads of the blanket on her lap. “I think I’m already lost to him,” she confessed. Her voice was no louder than a whisper that Elia had to strain to hear it. But she heard it. “Do you know what he said to me? He said he wished I had died and that they were still here…”

“A terrible thing to say,” Elia frowned. “But he didn’t mean it. You know that he didn’t mean it Shaena.” 

She said nothing, turning her face back to the flames. The glow from the hearth illuminated her the profile of her face and for a moment Elia was struck with the familiarity of the image. How many times had she sat next to Rhaegar while he stared broodingly into the fireplace? How many times had she seen those eyes darken to pools of inky black dread and melancholy? 

There was a saying about the Targaryens. It said that every time one was born the Gods flipped a coin. Throughout the centuries the members of that family had walked the thin line between brilliance and insanity. Depending on who you asked, or which accounts you read, each one had been considered mad for some reason or other so much so that maesters had coined the phrase Targaryen Madness to describe the condition. Perhaps there was some truth to it for the select few. Names like Meagor the Cruel, Aerion Brightflame, Aerys II sprang to her mind, however, Elia largely considered the theory to be baseless and determined on conjecture rather than any affirmative proof. 

There were those who claimed her husband had gone mad. As if that was the only explanation for why Prince Rhaegar, the beautiful, gallant crowned prince and hope the Seven Kingdoms would abandon his wife and children to run off with a Northron wolf maid. What did they know truly? What little had been revealed had left much for the imagination to fill in and fill in it did. People made up their own stories for the series of events. Some painted Rhaegar as a villain. Some paint him a fool. Others claimed him a man in love. But Elia knew none of these were true. 

The truth, she found, was far more nuanced and made for less entertaining songs. And that’s what it was all about in the end—the songs. It hardly mattered how Rhaegar had truly been like, how he had met his end through a series of unfortunate events that had been largely out of anyone’s control. It was unfair to place all the blame on him when it was in fact his father’s act of burning the young lordlings of four prominent Houses that had caused the uprising. And her husband had had little to do to bring about that series of events, besides the rumor that he had abducted Lyanna Stark and the miscommunication that followed. 

Rhaegar was many things, that was true. He was enigmatic. There were few that could say that they knew him and even fewer that could call him a friend. Elia had been one of those few, a friend, a confidant, his wife. If she were a prideful woman she might’ve boastfully claimed she had known Rhaegar best—though it was far from true. That honor belonged to Shaena and her alone. It was her that Rhaegar confided in. It was her that he told his plans and swore to keep his secrets. In the early years of their marriage, she had seen how brother and sister had clung to another, dependent, and always whispering to each other with their eyes from across a room. There had been an air about them as if they were two halves of a whole, separate, but the same shadowing each other. No one else could dare to get close and sometimes being in the same room had felt like the most egregious intrusion of privacy. 

At times she had been jealous of that. At times she wished Rhaegar had confided in her the way he had his sister. And still, there were times Elia wished that Shaena would confide in her the way she had done her husband. 

Elia knew there were still secrets that Shaena kept for her husband. Even now. Even from her. That’s all House Targaryen seemed to have—secrets. Even after all these years, she still found herself feeling much like an outsider when it came to the family. There were just certain things she couldn’t grasp, nuances that she often missed when it came to all the rest.

She hated the feeling of helplessness it brought her. She felt if she could just know more. If they could just trust each other the way she and Oberyn trusted one another or her and Doran trusted, the way family was supposed to trust each other, then perhaps she could understand. Yet some matters were meant just for the family and only for the family and would not be discussed outside of it. 

“I think instead of having Viserys fostered,” Elia spoke thoughtfully bringing Shaena’s eyes back to her, “you should have him squire for someone at court.”

“Who? A knight?”

“Or a lord,” she suggested. “Perhaps even a member of the kingsguard.”

Her sister’s expression became hard and her answer was brusque. “No. My brother will not squire for any kingsguard. Ever.”

Elia realized her mistake and lowered her eyes. “I apologize. That was thoughtless of me to suggest. I just thought that perhaps Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan…”

“You think I’d want Viserys to squire for two men who closed their eyes and their mouths and let my father get away with butchery while they stood in the same room? That stood outside the door while my mother was beaten and raped and did nothing? Talented swordsmen they might be, but they are not what I want my brother to aspire to be.” 

The princess had to agree with that sentiment. She wouldn’t want Aegon squiring for such men either. “Then what about a prince?” She suggested.

“I thought you were against having him fostered,” Shaena said. “You’re suggesting he squire for your brother?” 

“I’m not talking about Doran,” Elia told her. “Oberyn is a prince too and he lives at court.”

“So my brother would learn about poisons, brothels, and spears…I don’t know, Elia. Oberyn is...”

“What?” Elia asked, prompting her sister to finish what she was going to say about her younger brother. “My brother is what exactly?”

Shaena opened her mouth for a moment considering her next words and the arched brow of her good sister daring her to say something disparaging about the Red Viper of Dorne. After a beat she pressed her lips together and uttered a single word. “Trouble.”

Never had a single word encapsulated her younger brother so. She laughed. Then thought of it and laughed again. “Am I wrong?” Shaena asked her.

“No, you’re not,” Elia wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye with a flick of her finger and tossed her long black hair over her shoulder. “That is an apt description. But why not Oberyn? You like Oberyn and I know he’d agree to it if I asked him. He’s never been able to deny me anything.” 

“Well,” the queen considered it for a moment. “He would certainly be an influence, however, I’m unsure if it would be a good one. Especially for Viserys. I simply can’t imagine it.”

“Yet that’s exactly why I’m suggesting it,” she explained. “Viserys needs a male influence in his life. Without his father or his brother, he needs someone that can help guide him through that transition from boyhood to becoming a man. As much as you may want to try to do it yourself, there’s just certain things little brothers can’t talk to their big sisters about. Take it from me.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” Shaena considered finally. “But there would need to be conditions. No catching sand vipers in the dessert. No jumping off of cliffs. No swimming with sharks. Just nothing that would lead to reckless endangerment.” 

“I’m sure my brother would agree to all that,” Elia grinned. “He is more responsible than people think.”

“Just not half as responsible as he should be,” Shaena replied half-smiling and Elia found that she could not disagree with that statement either. “I just hope this will help him.”

“I’m sure that it will,” the princess assured her. 


	7. Robert Baratheon II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ned, what in the Seven Hells is this?” He barked angrily looking at his best friend. Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Robert’s harsh blue eyes, while Jon sat forward with interest.
> 
> “What does it say, Robert?” The Lord of the Vale asked. Robert passed the letter off to the older man, unable to speak he was seething. Jon's eyes darted back and forth as he skimmed what was written. He got to the part that angered Robert so and his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline, “Elopement?”
> 
> “Look, Robert, I’m am just as perplexed as you are,” Ned began. “I don’t know what all this means. All I know is that that is my sister’s hand. Whether or not her words were influenced in some way or if she was forced to write what she did is unclear.”
> 
> “Well, there’s no way any of this is true,” Robert said. “Lyanna wouldn’t have run off to marry another man. Not by her own free will. He must have forced her. He must have…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a few months... Sorry! I've been trying to work on the stories between work and whatnot. The holidays were crazy for me and I got sick over Christmas as much as I hate to use this excuse the real world kept fucking up my plans to write. But hopefully, this chapter makes up for my absence. Let me know what you guys think! Or just drop a comment to say hi! I'll see you guys soon (hopefully).

**Robert II.**

* * *

_ King's Landing, 283 A.C. _

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He was exhausted. The wound on his side was throbbing and Robert was sure that he must’ve loosened his stitches during the last stretch of his journey. He’d have to get a maester to look at it. He had been warned not to strain himself by the maester at Harroway’s Town, but he hadn’t listened. There were matters of more importance that he couldn’t simply rest and heal from the battle. Storm’s End was still under siege by the Tyrell and Redwyne armies. The Targaryens still occupied the Red Keep in King’s Landing. Lyanna was still unaccounted for in all the madness. 

He didn’t have the time to rest. Not while the woman he loved was still missing. Not while his brothers’ lives were in jeopardy. And especially, not while those dragons still sat upon the Iron Throne. 

He had sent Ned ahead of him, knowing that the Northron army suffered fewer injuries and casualties from the battle and thus would travel faster than the Baratheon, Arryn, and Tully hosts. He had expected to take a few days and gather his strength and the strength of his men before making the journey had Ned not sent a raven that urged him to ride for King’s Landing on the morrow. 

_ Robb, _

_ The king is dead. The Targaryens want to sue for peace. Come immediately. There’s something you should see. It’s about my sister. _

_ Ned. _

Robert didn’t waste any time, packing up the camp and setting a grueling pace for the capital that had them arriving in three days' time. He smelt the city before he saw it right over the hill, a host of Northorner and Westerland forces camped outside its gates. A messenger met them, Robert recognized the slight blond crannogman as Howland Reed from the black lizard-lion emboldened on his breastplate. 

“Your grace,” the man bowed his head in greeting from the top of his brown courser. He still hadn’t grown used to that address. 

“Lord Reed,” Robert nodded briskly in return. “Where’s Ned?”

“In the command tent with Lord Tywin,” he replied. “Come, I’ll take you.” Robert followed behind with a group of his most trusted men and advisors, chiefly amongst them was Jon and his uncles Eldon and Lomas. Howland lead them through the camp of crimson tents—Lannister crimson— and golden lions banners until they reach a large tent somewhere in the middle of it all. Robert and his men dismounted and followed Howland as he led them inside.

“—highly probable,” Tywin Lannister’s stern voice carried to Robert’s ears. Lord Lannister was seated at a long table, donned in red and gold armor with Lannister lions pouring over what looked like a map of the City with a small group of other lords. Amongst them was Ned, his face drawn and pensive, who looked up upon his arrival and caught his eyes from across the tent. 

“My Lords,” Howland Reed spoke up, “Pardon the interruption, but his grace has arrived.”

Ned was the first to address him. “Robert, you’re here sooner than I expected.”

“Aye. Your missive sounded urgent so I could hardly waste any time could I?” Robert scanned the faces of the other men present. 

Besides Ned and the Lord of Casterly Rock, there were other Lords and Knights in attendance. He recognized the lion sigils on the two men seated on Tywin’s right and knew them to be the man’s younger brothers Ser Kevan and Ser Tygett, although he did not know quite which one was which. Beside them was a man with a sigil of a peacock–House Severtt, he thought— and another next to him with a sigil of three silver ships—House Farman, he knew— and caught sight of members from Houses Marbrand, Prester, Crakehall, and Payne. Ser Ilyn looked particularly sour scowling as he was, albeit Robert supposed the man had every reason to be after King Aerys removed his tongue. He recognized the Northmen in Ned’s company, he had fought beside some of them and he had strategized with all of them at some point or other. 

Robert looked back at Ned. “What is this I hear about the King is dead? How do you know this?”

Though it was Ned of whom he asked the questions, it was Lord Tywin who answered. “A messenger greeted us outside the city when we arrived.” Robert felt his temper rising as he stared at the Lord of the Westerlands. 

“And what were your intentions when you arrived at King’s Landing, Lord Tywin? To defend it or besieged it?” 

He didn’t trust the man in the slightest. How could he? Tywin Lannister was not a man to be trifled with. Anyone who has heard of the Rains of Castamere knew well enough what the Lord was capable of. Even without that, Lord Tywin had served as Hand to King Aerys, second of his name, since he was twenty up until his son and heir, Jaime, was named to the Kingsguard at the Tournament at Herrenhal two years prior. Has it only been two years? It felt like a lifetime had passed. Robert didn’t even recognize the man he was back then. How naive he had been? How needlessly optimistic? The war had changed all that. Men that he never thought would have turned against him did. Good men. His father’s men. His men. The betrayal still left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it served to make him cautious. 

Lord Tywin to his credit didn’t flinch at Robert’s underlying insult. In fact, the elder man barely batted an eye at what most men would have perceived as a besmirch on their honor. Instead, the Shield of Lannisport merely met his eye evenly and without turning away addressed the others in the room. “Perhaps we should adjourn this meeting until a later time, my lords. Let’s give his grace time to recuperate from his journey. Then we can discuss what is to be done from there.”

Robert’s first instinct was to protest the delay, but then he met Ned’s eye and something in his expression made him think better of it.  _ We need Tywin Lannister, _ he remembered Jon Arryn saying something similar when news of Gulltown’s revolt had first reached them at the Eyrie. Nothing good would come out of making an enemy of the Lord of Casterly Rock. He needed the man. He needed his armies. Damn him. 

Robert silently acquiesced to the plan to adjourn this meeting for a later time, perferably after he had had a minute to discuss the missive he had received with Ned. Robert and his men stepped out of the tent with Ned and the other Northroners and explicit instructions were given to his Uncles to make camp with the Northorners. Then Robert and Jon followed Ned back to his tent in the Northron camp. They were not even inside a few seconds before Robert, in his deep booming voice, barked, “Alright Ned, now explain what in the Seven Hells is going on here.”

“Robert you should sit down,” Jon urged him, “You’re still wounded.”

“Ah, bugger that! I’m fine, Jon,” the Baratheon barked back and stared unwaveringly at Ned. Ned had always had a long solemn face, more prone to silent brooding than boisterous laughter, but the war had done something to him, to his eyes, that broke Robert’s heart. He wondered if his eyes had the same haunted, half-dead, look to them as well. Robert’s stern expression faltered and it took him a moment to find his words. “You wrote to me about Lya, Ned. Please tell me what news you’ve heard,” He said.

Without a word Ned turned and walked across the tent to a wooden table that was serving as a temporary desk, taking a piece of parchment from a wooden box on top, and returned to the chairs where he gestured for Robert and Jon to sit. “When I arrived at the King’s Landing, I was met with a messenger from Lord Lannister’s camp that informed me that Lord Tywin had news from within the city. When I met with him, he told me that King Aerys had been murdered, though he didn’t say by who, and that the Princess wanted to discuss terms of surrender under the condition that she would only speak with you personally, then he gave me this…” Ned handed him the parchment, “It’s my sister’s hand.”

Robert’s brows rose in surprise. “It’s what? You’re sure?” He looked at the rolled-up scroll in his hand and hurried to unroll it for him to see it with his own eyes. 

“I’m sure,” Ned told him, but put a hand on his wrist to stop him from unfolding the missive. “But Robert, what's written there…” He hesitated.

“What, What is it? Spit it out, Ned–“

Ned grey eyes hardened with resolve and his hand tightened ever so slightly on his wrist. “It raises some unsettling questions. I don’t want you to be caught off guard,” he said. 

His mind racing, the young man was beginning to fear the worst. “Is she alive? Is she hurt?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say, but Robb we may have drawn some false conclusions about her disappearance.”

“What do you mean?” 

Ned glanced away quickly his eyes darting to Jon who was sitting silently beside him before he looked back to him. “Read it for yourself,” he told him and released his hold on his wrist to sit back in his chair.

Robert wasted no more time in unrolling the parchment and skimming the looping messy scrawl written therein. It was Lyanna’s hand! He recognized it from the few letters he had exchanged with her by raven from the Eyrie and Storm’s End, letters that he had kept on his person since this whole mess had begun, rereading every night when he was alone pouring over them for any clues to her whereabouts. He recognized Lyanna’s hand like he recognized his own and the sight of it filled him with a sense of relief. She was alright. She was alive when she wrote this. It gave him hope, no matter how slim, that she may still be well. 

Robert felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The feelings in his chest were so strong that he had trouble keeping his composure and he had to blink several times to clear his vision so he could understand what was written there. 

_ “Your highness,” _ It began and Robert realized it was a letter written to someone other than he or Ned. He frowned but continued to read.

_ “I have struggled to write this letter, though I know it should be written—That it must be written. I have struggled to find the words to express how truly regretful I am that everything that has happened has in part been a consequence of my own selfish choices—“  _

_ What choices? _ He wondered what she was apologizing for. None of this was Lyanna’s fault. She had no need to apologize when it was that Dragon that stole her away. “ _ No apology I could give would ever make up for what has happened. I am sorry for the part I played in this war.”  _ Robert’s brows furrowed as he read the last line. She played no part. She was innocent of all this. He wondered who this letter was addressed. There was only a handful of people it could be. The address of your highness had him considering the recipient of this letter was none other than Princess Elia Martell, the widow of the now-deceased Prince, but the next line served to prove him wrong. 

_ “I am sorry that your brother will not be returning home to his wife and his children. I am sorry that you have lost a beloved brother—“  _ It was addressed to the sister. It was rather unexpected. He had never known Lyanna to have even met the Princess but the once at the opening feast at Herrenhal.  _ Why would she write to her?  _ Robert paused briefly to consider this, but then the next line four words had him freezing in his seat. 

_ “I grieve with you—“ _

_ Why? _ He blinked. Then blinked again. Yet the words still remained. He reread them twice, looking for any deviance from the rest of the letter. Surely, Lyanna could not have written that. Surely, it had to be someone else or something he told her to write. Those couldn’t be her true feelings. Why would she grieve for her kidnapper? Why mourn the death of the man who stole her away? Robert had a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

_ “—though I know that is a poor consolation. You wrote to me a moon ago, inquiring about the events that lead up to my disappearance and I have thought long and hard about the matter. In light of everything, I desire to set the record straight. Not that doing so will be any solatium in our current situation, but I want to speak the truth, even if you’ll be the only one to read it in full. The circumstances of Rhaegar’s and my elopement—“  _ Robert froze again.  _ Her what? _ It wasn’t possible. No, this must be some mistake…

“Ned, what in the Seven Hells is this?” He barked angrily looking at his best friend. Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Robert’s harsh blue eyes, while Jon sat forward with interest.

“What does it say, Robert?” The Lord of the Vale asked. Robert passed the letter off to the older man, unable to speak he was seething. Jon's eyes darted back and forth as he skimmed what was written. He got to the part that angered Robert so and his eyebrows rose almost to his hairline, “Elopement?”

“Look, Robert, I’m am just as perplexed as you are,” Ned began. “I don’t know what all this means. All I know is that that is my sister’s hand. Whether or not her words were influenced in some way or if she was forced to write what she did is unclear.”

“Well, there’s no way any of this is true,” Robert said. “Lyanna wouldn’t have run off to marry another man. Not by her own free will. He must have forced her. He must have…”

Ned opened his mouth to reply—

“Robert,” Jon cut in holding out the letter, “You should read the rest of it.”

“What’s the point? It’s all lies—“

“Robb,” Ned urged with a pleading look. “Read it, please. Then I’ll tell you everything I know.”

With great reluctance, Robert took the letter back from Jon Arryn to read again. “– _ are not so easy to sort out. It’s a complicated story with many moving pieces that even now I find myself lacking the answers to many of the questions that you posed in your original letter. Just let me say that the stories you’ve heard about your brother and I are largely and terribly false. He did not steal me away in the dead of night from the crossroads inn…” _

_ What is this?  _ The young man was clenching his jaw so tightly it felt as if his teeth might shatter. 

_ “Nor was our disappearance something that we planned to do ahead of time—“ _

_ What the fuck is this?  _ His fingers tightened around the parchment as if he couldn’t decide whether to clutch it close or rip it to pieces.

_ “It is largely a terrible misunderstanding as neither of us left the inn together nor at the same time. I know you have nothing but my own word to believe, but please know that I am not telling you any falsehoods. This story is long and complicated, so please bear with me as I explain what really happened near Herrenhal…”  _ Robert didn’t want to keep reading, but he found himself, against his better judgment, unable to turn his attention away. He feared less the answers she would give for the events than the question those answers would raise. Clearly, if it was enough to ruffle and unsettle Ned, it must’ve been something truly earth-shaking. 

_ “It’s true that I planned to leave the inn that night,” she wrote, “while the wedding party slept and disappear before they awoke to find me gone. It was my intention to run away and leave them all there. However, it was not nor has it ever been in my plans to run away with your brother. I met him on the road quite by chance and he did not know who I was for I had disguised myself as a squire to make it safer to travel. I met him at the crossing at the Trident, him and Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent, he told me he was returning to King’s Landing for your nameday. He offered for me to accompany them on their return journey and I accepted because traveling in a group seemed far safer than traveling alone. Yet none of us ever made it to King’s Landing as you well know. That night we were…” _

The letter cut off suddenly and Robert turned the parchment over to look for the other half of the sentence. Surely, this couldn’t be all there is? “Where’s the rest of it?” He demanded turning on Ned.

“That’s it,” Ned said gravely.

“That can’t be it,” Robert argued. “There has to be more. Why would it just be caught off like that?”

“I believe it was intentional,” Ned told him. “I don’t believe the Princess wanted either of us to read the end of that letter.”

“It’s smart,” Jon Arryn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “She knew what she was doing. By giving you that letter, she ensured that you’ll meet with her to get answers if not to negotiate terms.”

Ned nodded his head once having already come to the same conclusion as Jon. “She’s using Lyanna as leverage,” he said. “Clearly she knows where she is and how we can find her, but she’s purposely left out her whereabouts…”

“What about the messenger?” Robert asked remembering what Lord Tywin had said about a messenger meeting him outside the city. 

Ned shook his head gravely. “It’s no good. The girl couldn’t speak, she had no tongue.” A look of distaste crossed the Northern’s face. “She couldn’t have been more than a child. Besides, I didn’t get the sense that she understood the common tongue.”

“So then the only way of getting answers is if I meet with her?” Robert’s frown deepened. “And what of the King? How did he die? You said he was murdered?”

“It’s not clear, but what I gathered is that there was a coup from the members of Aerys' small council; after the prince fell, they no longer felt secure in his rule and turned on him,” Ned said.

“How are you sure this isn’t a trap?” Jon asked.

Ned turned to him, his grey eyes glinting like steel. “I’m not,” he said firmly. “I’m fairly certain it is a trap, however, I’m also fairly certain that Tywin Lannister is convinced that the King is dead and I think he, more than anyone, would know the truth of the matter.”

“And you trust Tywin Lannister?” Robert arched his dark brows incredulously. 

“Not a bit,” Was Ned’s blunt reply. “But I trust what I’ve seen with my own eyes. And…” Ned swallowed thickly, clearing his throat, “...and if the Mad King were still alive, I don’t believe he would’ve let anyone cut off his fingers.”

Robert was taken aback. “What?”

“Apparently, when Lord Tywin arrived outside the city the messenger gave him three things: Lyanna’s letter, a letter from the Princess Shaena informing him of her father’s passing and a wish to sue for peace, and a box with King Aerys’ severed fingers dipped in tar and wrapped in silver-blonde hair…”

“You saw the fingers yourself,” Jon questioned Ned and the Northman grimaced nodding. 

Disgust passed over Robert’s face and he was glad that his stomach was currently empty or he might’ve been sick. “What sort of person does that to their father?” He wondered. 

“Well, when your father is someone like King Aerys…” Ned trailed off. “I don’t suppose there was much love lost between the Princess and her father.”

“I guess not,” Robert agreed. “Do you have the Princess’s letter?”

“I don’t,” Ned told him.” But Lord Tywin does. I’m sure he can be persuaded to show it to you if you wish to see it.”

“I do,” Robert told him. 

The three men continued to discuss matters for several more hours. Eventually, food was called for and they ate a meager meal of rabbit and parsnips with bean pottage. Jon insisted on having a maester look at Robert’s stitches and when the man, Maester Kristopher, found his stitches loosened and bleeding anew Jon had been chiding. Robert with mounting annoyance soon dismissed the maester and Jon claiming tiredness. He was left alone with Ned. They talked about everything and nothing. It felt as if they were both skirted the subject of Lyanna’s letter and the revelations it brought. Robert had many questions and Ned...well, the Northman was reluctant to give any answers. 

He asked himself why Lyanna would choose to run away. Why would she marry that dragon bastard? He was unable to think of any answers—or more he didn’t want to consider the dark thoughts that had taken root in the recesses of his mind. That perhaps Lyanna left because she didn’t want to marry him… perhaps Lyanna married Rhaegar because she wanted to…

He didn’t want to consider it. That can’t be the truth. She must’ve been tricked. She must have. Robert refused to accept any other explanation. No matter what answer he was given by the princess. 

Robert couldn’t accept that everything had been a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea for a fic. Don't know where I'm planning to go with it, honestly, but I thought it'd likely follow the years after Robert's Rebellion with flashbacks to the years during the Rebellion. I have a lot of current fics that I should be working on, so I can't guarantee constant updates. But if there's any interest in this story, I'll write more chapters.


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